


We Will Burn Together

by TheLadyZephyr



Series: The Twice Told Tale of Thorin Oakenshield [2]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Battle of Five Armies Fix-It, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Plot, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-07
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-03-29 11:44:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3895099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLadyZephyr/pseuds/TheLadyZephyr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So far, by some miracle, everyone was alive. Against all odds, he’d managed to keep things from plummeting too far out of control, despite the way fate seemed intent on toying with him. Now the Mountain draws ever closer, and Thorin Oakenshield must face the very temptation that once utterly destroyed him.</p><p>And if he’s finally admitted to himself that his regard for the company’s resident burglar goes beyond friendship, well, this clearly isn’t the time for such things.</p><p>He may be destined to go down in flames once again, but by Durin’s name, he’d make sure the fire lights up the sky before he burns out.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Thorin wakes up after the Battle of Five Armies the day the company is due to meet their new burglar in Hobbiton. He must find a way to use his knowledge to change their fate, yet dealing in secrets and subtlety does not play to his strengths. Thankfully, as always, he has Bilbo Baggins to cover his shortcomings.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome back everyone! This is the second part of Thorin's time traveling adventure, if you haven't already you'll want to read [A Fool's Hope](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3737272/) before this story.
> 
> A massive thank you to [StrivingArtist](http://archiveofourown.org/users/StrivingArtist/pseuds/StrivingArtist) for her invaluable help and support!
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> \- Lady Z

Warg howls echoed in the early morning light.

Thorin and company crouched amongst the foothills of the Misty Mountains, catching their breath while they waited for their burglar to return from scouting the ridge line. The dwarf king’s stomach roiled unpleasantly with worry for the hobbit. _He is fine. He was fine last time, and he will be once again._

He thought back to their moment on the Carrock. If Kíli hadn’t interrupted them he would have kissed the hobbit, in full view of Gandalf and the rest of the company. The idea was simultaneously thrilling and terrifying. _You did not pass through death to fix your love life,_ he berated himself, refusing to acknowledge the tiny part of him that wondered whether Bilbo would have returned the kiss.

He straightened when the hobbit slipped around the corner and picked his way swiftly down the path.

“Bilbo,” he said gratefully as the halfling reached them, “Are you alright? How close is the pack?”

“I’m fine,” said the hobbit, waving a hand dismissively, “the orcs are right on our tail, but that’s not the worst of it.”

“The wargs picked up our scent?!” asked Dwalin apprehensively.

“Not yet, but they will do,” Bilbo panted, “We have another problem.”

“Did they see you? They saw you?!” Gandalf broke in.

“Hush!” snapped Thorin as the dwarves started murmuring, “They did not see him. Bilbo, what is it?”

Bilbo gave him a fleeting smile.

“There is something else out there,” the hobbit stated uneasily.

“What form did it take?” Gandalf sounded resigned, like he already knew the answer. “A bear?”

“Ye – yes?” Bilbo looked at the wizard questioningly. “But bigger, much bigger!”

“You knew about this beast?” Bofur asked Gandalf incredulously.

“We must press on,” Thorin ordered. “Gandalf, is there no place of safety?”

“Perhaps,” the wizard replied. “There is a house not far from here, where we might take refuge.”

“Then lead us there; there is no choice.”

A fierce ursine roar echoed from above them, underscoring his words.

Gandalf spun and took off down the path, crying “Hurry!”

They raced through the last of the foothills to where the land flattened out into grassy fields scattered with wildflowers. Thorin kept an eye on the dwarves as they ran. His company jogged doggedly, armour clanking as they staggered along. They were well used to walking long hours, but the headlong sprint was testing their fitness. Most were panting harshly, and poor Bombur was puffing like a bellows.

The king noticed that Bilbo was falling behind the group, and slowed to peer at the hobbit’s face in concern. The halfling’s skin was deathly white. 

“Bilbo?!” he asked with an icy flash of fear.

To Thorin’s alarm Bilbo’s breathing became rapidly more laboured, and the halfling’s steps began to flag. He looked up at Thorin, his eyes wide and dazed, opening his mouth as if to answer.

Then his eyes rolled up into his head as he collapsed. Thorin clutched at the hobbit as he lurched to the side.

“Bilbo?!” he cried, fear distorting his voice.

The hobbit blinked confusedly, still conscious but only barely. 

“Kíli, help me!” the king shouted, and his nephew looked back over his shoulder.

The archer crossed quickly to take one of Bilbo’s arms, panic touching his face.

“What happened? What’s wrong with him?” his nephew asked as they staggered through the scattered trees.

Thorin couldn’t find the words to answer; his thoughts were stuck in a loop of confusion and fear. _This didn’t happen last time! What did I do wrong? What did I change?_

“This way! Quickly!” Gandalf boomed, and to Thorin’s immense relief he saw that they had reached the golden grassed meadow that surrounded the shape shifter’s home.

The company summoned a last burst of speed at Gandalf’s urging, crossing into Beorn’s property just as the beast himself exploded from the trees with an earth shaking bellow.

“Lift the latch you fools!” snarled Thorin as the dwarves pounded frantically on the door, and they poured inside as Beorn’s hulking form barrelled across the clearing.

The beast’s thundering foot falls shook the ground, and he launched himself at the door as they were pushing it shut. Thorin crossed to lay Bilbo down gently in the hay, not bothering to watch as the company reeled back under the bear’s onslaught. With a final, heaving shove they managed to slam the door closed and bar it.

The hobbit’s head lolled to the side, and he said woozily, “Thorin?”

The king slid a hand into the halfling’s curls to still him, and froze as he felt warm dampness. He pulled his hand back in shock. His fingers were wet. Blood.

“Óin!” he yelled wildly, “Bilbo is hurt!”

Gandalf looked up sharply and crossed to kneel down beside the hobbit. 

“His…head…“ Thorin mumbled, trying to think past the high ringing in his ears.

Óin shuffled over, pushing Thorin aside gently but firmly and muttering under his breath in Khuzdul.

The king watched the healer examine the hobbit’s eyes with well-practiced ease, floating in a strange sense of detachment.

“Give them some space, lad,” said Balin’s voice kindly, pulling lightly on the king’s shoulder.Thorin snarled wordlessly, and resisted the movement, eyes glued to Bilbo’s face. “Thorin,” Balin entreated, “You cannot help him by hovering, come away.”

He let Balin pull him away slightly; his skin felt numb.

“I don’ think he has a concussion,” Óin said as he pressed lightly on the hobbit’s scalp, “But ‘e lost a fair amount of blood before the eagles grabbed us up..”

“What happened?” asked Fíli, “When did he get hurt?”

“Azog,” spat Dwalin, “He threw him against the rock when he…”

The warrior trailed off and glanced at Thorin, and the king grit his teeth against a landslide of guilt. _When he saved me. Again._

“Will he be alright?” he bit off the words shortly, and Balin shot him a worried glance.

_ This is my fault. _

“Aye, with some rest and some sustenance, I’d imagine so,” Óin said, squinting down at Bilbo critically.

“’S fine,” Bilbo mumbled, batting weakly at the healer.

Thorin nodded curtly, spun on his heel, and stalked from the room. 

When he was out of sight of all others he collapsed to his knees, burying his head in his hands. _Always, I hurt those I love. My entire life has been a string of good intentions and terrible mistakes._ He shut his eyes, clenching his jaw against painful thoughts.

_ I couldn’t save Erebor.  I couldn’t save grandfather, or father, or Frerin.  _ He used the memories like a flail, whipping himself with them over and over in the hopes it would ease the guilt. It didn’t. It couldn’t. His brother’s mischievous grin. The great halls of the mountain ringing with song and laughter. His father teaching him how to hold a sword. 

_ Even worse than failing, what if I make it worse?  _ He considered how far they still had to go, how many challenges they still had to face.Terror shot through him. 

_ Bilbo… he has gone through such peril, because of me. How am I to reclaim my homeland and save the lives of my kin,  _ he thought bitterly, _if I cannot even protect a single hobbit? What if_ Bilbo _dies instead of me?_

“You’re doin’ it again,” Dwalin’s voice intruded on his melancholy.

“What?” he grunted in reply.

“That brooding, angry king shtick you do,” the warrior said with a smirk.

“Excuse me?” Thorin exclaimed with a fearsome scowl.

“Yes, that’s the one,” Dwalin replied, and Thorin spluttered.

Dwalin sat down next to him. 

“He came here by his own free will you know,” he said seriously.

“Who did?” grunted Thorin mulishly.

Dwalin raised a sardonic eyebrow at him, and he looked away, staring thunderously at the floor.

“He was injured in battle, and now he’s going to be fine,” Dwalin said bluntly, “Just like countless others you’ve fought with over the years.”

“He’s not-!” Thorin began angrily, then broke off at the look of triumph on his friend’s face.

“Jus’ had to be sure,” the warrior said with a smug grin. 

Thorin glowered at him, ignoring the now familiar swooping sensation in his stomach that seemed to inevitably accompany talk of the hobbit.

“He’s an honourable little creature,” Dwalin said innocently, eyeing the king sidelong.

Thorin hesitated, suspicious, but he certainly couldn’t disagree.

“Yes.”

“I was confused at first, I admit it,” his friend continued. “You are not normally one who trusts easily… well, you are not normally one who trusts _anyone.”_

Thorin busied himself cleaning out his pipe, uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was going.

“And yet, this bothersome little runt, you took into your confidence almost immediately.”

Thorin bristled at his friend’s words despite himself, but the suspicious squint of the warrior’s eyes made him turn away again.

“Fine then, be like that. I’ll get it out of you eventually,” Dwalin said, getting to his feet. “You should go see him, he’s lucid again and pining for you.”

Thorin dropped the pipe with a clatter, and Dwalin cackled as he walked away. Scowling, the king scooped up his pipe, hesitating briefly for all of three seconds before hurriedly getting to his feet and following Dwalin back to the other room.

Bilbo was sitting propped up against one of the patterned pillars, wedged between Fíli and Kíli with a tray of honeyed bread and milk on his lap. A clean, white bandage was wrapped diagonally around his head, pinning his curls back on one side to reveal the delicate curve of a pointed ear. Thorin thought the effect was rather charmingly rakish. The hobbit looked up and beamed when he entered the room, and the king cleared his throat quietly.

“I hear I have to apologize for fainting on you again,” Bilbo said with an easy grin.

“We were just telling Mr Baggins about your spectacular burglar catching skills,” Fíli said, his eyes twinkling mischievously.

“Twice in one quest, Uncle, quite a feat of dexterity!” Kíli exclaimed with a sly grin to match his brother’s.

_ Excellent, these buffoons have figured me out as well,  _ he thought. _Does anyone NOT know?_

“How are you feeling?” he asked roughly; his throat felt dry.

“Fine, fine,” Bilbo waved the hand holding the bread. “It was just, well, you know, bit of blood loss, smidge of exhaustion.”

Thorin snorted, shaking his head with a smile. He settled himself on the floor in front of the hobbit, taking a piece of bread when Bilbo offered him one. He cleared his throat and stared pointedly at his nephews, but Kíli only broadened his smile, and Fíli snuggled a little closer into Bilbo’s side, making himself comfortable.

_ Bastards. _

“Bilbo,” he began seriously, “I need to thank you…”

“Oh hush,” the hobbit interrupted him, “It’s nothing I wouldn’t do again for you, uh, for any of you in a heartbeat, and I know you’d do the same for me.”

Thorin gaped at him, and Kíli stage whispered, “Bilbo, he’s trying to be noble, you’re supposed to swoon!”

Fíli guffawed, and Thorin glared furiously at them while Bilbo twisted around to swat the young dwarf over the back of the head.

“Quiet you, leave your uncle be.”

He turned back to the king and his expression relaxed.

“Seriously Thorin, it’s ok. We’re all ok,” he said with a crooked smile. “Nothing that’s not in the job description.”

The king returned the smile, listening to his jumping pulse. _I am so very far gone._

***

They turned in early that night, and if the only available clear spot for his bedroll was right next to Bilbo’s, his nephews’ wide innocent eyes declared that _clearly_ they’d had nothing to do with it. Thorin fell asleep easily despite the prickles down his spine caused by the hobbit’s proximity, resting easy with the knowledge that Beorn was guarding the night.

In the morning Gandalf managed to appease the shape shifter’s ire; Bilbo’s injury seemed to lessen his annoyance that they’d helped themselves to some of his food. After breakfast the company scattered, preparing for their journey through Mirkwood. Thorin thought anxiously of their last trip through the forest, and pulled their host aside.

“Master Beorn,” he said, inclining his head graciously. “My heart rests uneasy in regards to the forest.”

The man stared down at him with his otherworldly gaze.

“I would not… I would see my kin safely through to the other side, by whatever means,” the king glanced over to where Bilbo was running a hand over the trunk of one of the great oak trees, and his eyes softened. The hobbit tipped his head back to take in the spreading branches, and an awed grin lit up his face. Thorin smiled fondly.

“I beg of you,” he continued, turning back to the shifter, “is there anything you can do to help us navigate the pathways?”

Beorn tilted his head to the side, the jerky movement was somehow animalistic, feral.

“Whatever you desire in return,” Thorin continued, some instinct making him press on, “I would give it gladly, be it all the gold and gems in Erebor.”

“You intrigue me, Thorin Oakenshield,” the shape shifter rumbled, his strange accent rolling over the words. “I will send with you a guide, so that your loved ones will be safe. You may keep your… treasure.”

He loped gracefully to the oak tree and reached into the branches, whispering softly. A tiny bird with dark feathers and a yellow beak landed on his outstretched finger; a blackbird. The shifter turned and held out the delicate bird as it perched on his fingers. Thorin put his hand out awkwardly, and the blackbird hopped over to stand lightly on his palm. 

“She will make sure you do not lose the path, dwarf.”

The bird twisted to examine him out of one small, beady, yellow rimmed eye, and whistled a few cheerful notes.

“Thank you,” he said earnestly, inclining his head.

“Thank me by keeping her safe,” Beorn said, eyes flashing dangerously, so that Thorin could see some of the beast behind them. “If she is in danger she will leave. Do not try to stop her, else whatever trouble you have stumbled upon will seem a dream when compared to my wrath.”

The blackbird skipped over to his shoulder, and pecked lightly at one of his braids. He jumped slightly, aware of the shifter’s eyes on him.

“Take care you do not unravel those, little one, they mean a lot to me,” he said warily.

The bird took the braid in its beak, and yanked. Thorin sighed.

“Who’ve you got there?” asked Bilbo, walking up with his eyes sparkling.

“Our guide for the forest paths,” replied the king, holding himself still as the hobbit leaned up to rub the bird’s downy chest with a finger.

She nibbled lightly at the halfling, then turned to resume savaging Thorin’s hair.

“Hey now, stop that!” said Bilbo, and he reached up and took the victimized braid, gently removing it from the bird’s beak.

Thorin froze, eyes widening and red dusting his cheeks, and the hobbit laid the woven strand down again, absently smoothing a few stray hairs while he chatted to the thrush.

“Leave those alone, dwarves can get funny about their hair you know.”

Thorin heard a stifled snicker, and looked up, mortified. Fíli, Kíli and Bofur were watching them from across the yard where they were saddling the ponies. The princes were elbowing each other and sniggering, and Bofur’s eyebrows had risen so high they’d all but disappeared under his ridiculous hat.

“Come on,” he said gruffly, “We need to go before we lose too much light.”

The company mounted up on Beorn’s piebald ponies and set out once more, cantering swiftly across the rolling hills. As before, they reached the forest without any sign of the orc’s pursuit. The darkly twisted trees looked just as ominous as Thorin remembered, curling crookedly around the weathered Elven Gate.

“This forest feels… sick,” said Bilbo, eying the trees uneasily as the dwarves began to remove the ponies’ tack.

“It is,” replied Thorin, squinting down the pathway. 

He could already feel the putrid throbbing of the forest’s menace, the way distances seemed to tilt and shift.

“Is there no way around?” Bilbo asked Gandalf.

“Not unless we go two hundred miles north, or twice that distance south,” the wizard replied distractedly, scrutinizing the area inside the gate.

Thorin considered him, mulling things over. _Why is it that Gandalf leaves us?_ On their first journey he’d been far too preoccupied with fretting over the fact that the wizard was leaving it all to worry about the cause of his departure. _Who can guess at the intentions of wizards?_ he thought testily, putting the matter out of his mind. Gandalf would do as he wished, regardless.

The king noticed Bilbo was staring fixedly down the trail, fiddling idly with something in his pocket. Thorin stiffened and grit his teeth as he caught a glimpse of gold, shaking off the sensation of clawed fingers scraping through his mind with a crooning note. _That ring again!_ He wished Bilbo had left the accursed thing in the goblin tunnels.

Although, from what he’d seen, it was exquisitely crafted; it probably was best that they hadn’t left such a beautiful piece for the goblins to find. _Perhaps I can ask Bilbo if I can take a quick look-_

“PEEP!” the little bird chirruped loudly in his ear, and Thorin leaned away, wincing.

Bilbo looked up at the noise, and popped the ring back into his pocket guiltily when he noticed Thorin’s gaze. 

“ _Sorry!”_ he mouthed, widening his eyes apologetically.

Thorin shook his head slightly, and smiled reassuringly.    

“Not my horse!” cried Gandalf, hurrying back to the company. “I need it!”

“Wha’?” asked Nori, stopping in the act of removing the wizard’s gear, and the rest of the dwarves began muttering unhappily.

“You’re not leaving us?” Bilbo asked disbelievingly.

“I would not do this unless I had to,” the wizard apologised, and he leant down to exchange quiet words with the hobbit while Thorin settled the dwarves’ muttering.

“I’ll be waiting for you at the Overlook, before the slopes of Erebor,” Gandalf said loudly, addressing Thorin as he strode quickly to his horse.

_ No you will not,  _ thought the king.

“Keep the map and key safe… do not enter that mountain without me.” 

Something in the wizard’s tone lifted the hairs on the back of Thorin’s neck. _Did he_ know _that I would fall to the dragon sickness? Before we were anywhere near the mountain?!_ He felt flickers of despair as the wizard delivered a last warning before wheeling his horse around and thundering away. _Am I destined to lose my mind yet again?_

“Come on then,” said Balin, “The days before Durin’s Day are waning, we had best be off.”

Thorin put his misgivings aside as his company looked to him.

“Aye, we will not miss our chance to find the hidden door. Let’s go.”

He gathered his wits and strode determinedly into the forest, the blackbird puffing out her feathers and huddling into his shoulder as the crooked trees blocked out the sky.

“I hope that you can see us through this foul place, little one,” he murmured to the bird. “We did not fare very well under our own guidance the first time.”

***


	2. Chapter 2

Thorin led the way down the meandering passageway. Twisting twigs grasped at their clothing and oozing fungi squelched underfoot. The weight of the forest’s dark magic bore down on the king’s mind, a dark throbbing pressure that made it difficult to focus. Stray thoughts skipped across his consciousness like pebbles across a pond.

_ I have thrown off the clutches of far greater madness than what meagre magic this foul place can conjure up,  _ he thought resolutely, moving carefully and cautiously, checking and rechecking every footstep before placing it. On his shoulder, the blackbird burst into song and took wing, trilling sweetly as it landed on a branch to the king’s side. He realised with a jolt that he’d been about to lead them down a false trail; the half buried stones of the real path doubled back and around behind a huge, bloated tree.

The blackbird’s song was an anchor against the swell of the grim illusions of the forest. The little bird fluttered from branch to branch ahead of them, chirruping and twittering as it flew.

“Air!” Bofur croaked from the middle of the line, “I need air!”

“My head! It’s swimming!” Óin exclaimed, disoriented.

Thorin jerked around to look at the company. His friends’ steps were uneven, their eyes staring about and glazed over. He cursed softly; they were not prepared to fend off the forest’s spell. 

“Listen! All of you!” he said urgently, trying to gather their attention.

“What was tha’?” asked Ori, pointing off between the trees.

Thorin spun, fearing spiders or elves or something worse, but there was nothing there.

“Yer seein’ things!” Glóin accused, puffing up his chest.

“He most certainly is not!” Dori blustered angrily, marching forward to point a finger at the fiery haired dwarf.

Bifur added a string of angry Khuzdul, and the dwarves all began to talk at once, shoving against each other.

“Enough!” shouted Thorin, and they turned to look at him.

“Wait!” Nori cried, with one of the most nakedly open expressions Thorin had ever seen on the cunning dwarf’s face. “Where is Ori?”

Dori whirled around, a strangled gasp escaping his lips. There was a moment of fearful, charged silence as they realised that the young dwarf had in fact disappeared, then the company exploded in a flurry of activity.

“Where is he?!” Dori yelled, panicked, pacing the pathway frantically.

“He was here a second ago!” growled Dwalin, eyes scanning the trees as he shifted his grip on his war hammer restlessly.

“There’s a light, through the trees there!” cried Kíli at the same time that Balin exclaimed from the other side of the path, “There are tracks this way, lads!”

Then the company scattered, hurrying off into the trees in half a dozen different directions.

Thorin stood immobilised by shock, alone on the pathway.

“No!” he choked out, and then louder, “WAIT! We must stay on the path you fools!”

Only silence answered him. He snarled wordlessly, stalking the tree line and trying to catch a glimpse of any of his friends; he hadn’t even taken note of who had gone in what direction in the chaos. He stopped and leant around a gnarled trunk as he noticed a flickering firelight in the gloom. The blackbird flitted back to land on his shoulder, chittering agitatedly.

Thorin turned to look at it, and asked “You are going to leave if I step off the path, aren’t you?”

The little bird shuffled its wings, and Thorin nodded. 

“So be it.”

He took a breath and plunged into the darkness as the flutter of small wings heralded the departure of his guide. The king crept towards the fire, listening carefully and scanning the surrounding forest relentlessly. He slowed when it seemed to him as if the light was only yards away beyond a screen of branches. A light wind stirred the branches around him, and it sounded almost like laughter. Thorin glanced upwards warily, noticing several shapeless clumps high in the trees that looked suspiciously like cobwebs. 

A shout echoed through the trees, and abruptly Thorin was plunged into darkness as the fire ahead of him was snuffed out. He stalked swiftly in the direction he thought the voice has come from. _Was that Bofur?_ His foot came down on something soft, and he fell back with a cry as someone grabbed his leg.

“Uncle?” Fíli’s voice asked sleepily.

“Fíli!” he cried in relief, pulling his nephew into a crushing hug.

The prince awoke fully with a squawk, shaking his head slightly in the dim light to try and clear it.

“Wha-? Thorin, I’m fine, honestly. You know me, I’m always fine.”

_ No, you are not,  _ the king thought as Fíli patted his back awkwardly. He forced himself to let his nephew go, stubbornly shoving away thoughts of Ravenhill.

“Where are the others?” he asked.

Fíli started, and looked around wildly. 

“Kíli was with me!” the prince’s voice had an edge of panic. 

“There was a fire, and… singing…” he trailed off, frowning. “I don’t remember?”

“We’ll find your brother, and the others,” Thorin assured him, getting to his feet and offering his hand to help Fíli up.

The prince took his hand and stood, his normally easy-going expression replaced with fierce determination. 

“I think we were heading that way,” Fíli gestured, and they set out quickly and quietly, the prince stalking through the forest with a sense of barely leashed violent potential, like a coiled spring ready to explode.

Thorin eyed his nephew with a grim smile. Those that thought the prince’s relaxed nature and easy smiles meant that he could be pressed without repercussions soon learned that when it came to his family, Fíli was unyieldingly protective and loyal. _He is of the line of Durin, after all._

“What is this mess?” Fíli asked, and Thorin looked over in time to see him reach out and flick the spider webs coating a nearby branch.

“Wait!” he cried, holding up a hand, but it was too late; ripples of vibration were quivering outwards, spreading from web to web and out through the forest.

“Thorin?” Fíli asked worriedly, putting a hand on the hilt of one of his swords as the king drew _Orcrist_.

“Giant spiders,” he said tersely, “Draw your weapons, we have to move.”

“Spiders?!” Fíli mouthed incredulously, but he did as Thorin asked and they took off again.

They both froze and swivelled around as the sounds of clashing metal and inhuman screeches drifted through the trees. They exchanged a quick glance, and then charged off towards the sounds. As they barrelled through a last thorny bush and burst into the clearing they came upon a scene of utter chaos.

Several dwarf sized lumps were strewn about the ground, covered in webs and struggling feebly. Dwalin, Bifur, and surprisingly Ori were still on their feet, but they were vastly outnumbered by a horde of spiders. The three dwarves stood back to back, fighting desperately while the creatures swarmed around them. 

Thorin felt a lancing pain in his leg and shouted as he was dragged backwards off his feet. He twisted as he was hauled through the undergrowth; a spider had his ankle in its jaws, scuttling away from the battle. He lunged up at the beast with _Orcrist_ , but it darted to the side, clamping down harder on his leg and wrenching a gasp of pain from his lips.

Abruptly he was flipped against a tree, and strings of sticky muck whirled about as the spider’s many limbs spun him deftly. When he was secured the spider loomed over him, and bile rose in his throat as it extended a stinger, venom already dripping to hiss smoking in the leaves below. 

He struggled desperately as the monster drew back to strike -

Then the spider’s innards exploded onto him as something invisible stabbed through its abdomen.

The thing keened horribly, high and grating, thrashing backwards as one of its limbs was severed in two. Again and again gaping wounds appeared over its body, until it twitched once more, and was still.

Thorin grinned.

“Lovely of you to turn up, Master Baggins.”

“At your service as always, Master Oakenshield,” came the hobbit’s reply.

“You’re going to do terrible things to my reputation, you know,” he said as something unseen began to slice carefully through his bindings. “It’s not very dignified for a dwarven king to owe his life to a hobbit so many times over.”

There was a bark of laughter from the air in front of him, and Bilbo’s invisible hand grasped his and helped him to his feet.

“Come on,” the halfling’s voice said, “this hobbit has more dwarven reputations to ruin.”

They hurried back the way Thorin had come, the king attempting to brush off some of the leaves and sticks he’d collected as they ran.

“You have no idea how creepy those things are when you can hear them speak,” Bilbo said as they slid down a muddy hillside.

“They _speak?”_ Thorin exclaimed, vaulting over a tree root. It was very disconcerting that he couldn’t see where Bilbo’s voice was coming from.

“Throw me a dagger! Quick!” Kíli’s voice came from their left, and Thorin swerved towards it.

“If you think I’m giving you a weapon, dwarf,” a feminine, melodic voice answered, “You are mistaken!”

The king sprinted up in time to see an auburn haired elf maiden flick a dagger over her shoulder into the eye of the spider that was charging towards his nephew. Kíli’s eyes widened comically, and he stared at the elf, impressed.

“Kíli, step back!” Thorin said, stalking forward and brandishing _Orcrist_.

“Uncle!” Kíli shouted, looking up at him in relief, “You’re ok! Have you seen the others, is Fíli-“

“Silence, dwarf,” a voice ordered curtly from behind them, and Thorin glanced over his shoulder and found himself face to face with the elven king’s son, an arrow aimed between his eyes. Other elves had materialised as well, flanking them in a ring of drawn bows.

Thorin shifted his grip on _Orcrist_ , but stilled, remembering the moment on Ravenhill when he’d thought he was about to be killed by a nameless orc, leaving Azog to walk free. This elf had saved his life, and granted him his revenge.

The king hesitated, meeting the elf prince’s severe blue eyes, then inclined his head slightly.

“I am Thorin, son of Thrain, King Under the Mountain. You have my thanks for saving the life of my nephew.”

The elf prince lowered his bow slightly, frowning in confusion, and Kíli gaped openly, gobsmacked. The elf seemed torn, glancing up at the auburn haired warrior, then came to a decision.

“I am Legolas Greenleaf, Prince of the Woodland Realm,” he said formally, releasing the tension on his bowstring and lowering the weapon. The other elves followed suit, though they remained poised for action.

Thorin took a deep breath. _I can do this. I have stood down a fire breathing dragon, I can manage to exchange a few polite words with an elf._

“I would enquire if you know the whereabouts of the rest of my company, if I may. I am concerned for the welfare of my kin.”

_ There, not so bad.  _ The words were stilted and clipped, but they came out at least. Kíli let out a strangled gurgle, and Thorin felt a little better thanks to his amusement at his nephew’s flabbergasted expression.

“We found eleven other dwarves,” Legolas answered, while the she-elf hid a smile at Kíli behind her hand. “Several ran afoul of the sleep spell at our camp fires, and the rest we rescued from the spiders. Is that the entirety of your company?”

“Yes,” Thorin answered, shooting Kíli a warning look when he opened his mouth. _Best if Bilbo remains unknown to them._ “Are they unharmed?”

“They are well, though slightly worse for wear from the troubles with the beasts.”

The elf signalled to his people, and continued, “We will take you to them.”

The elves escorted them through the forest, and while their stiff postures and wary glances said they were not exactly welcome guests, it was better than the outright hostility they’d received on Thorin’s first encounter.

They reached the remainder of the company, who looked very woebegone: covered in cobwebs and dirt and hemmed in by a ring of stoic elven warriors. Kíli ran forward with a relieved grin, and the elves ducked sideways with disgruntled expressions as he tackled his brother in a hug.

Legolas delivered some swift orders to the guards in Elvish, and they hesitated briefly, blinking in surprise before they stepped back from the dwarves. 

The Elvish prince turned to Thorin as the company collected their fallen weapons and glared suspiciously at the elves. 

“I will take you to my father, King Thranduil,” he said, and while it wasn’t exactly an order, his firm tone left no room for negotiation either.

Thorin nodded.

“Yes, that would be best. We are very much obliged to you for the escort,” he managed to keep his tone polite and pleasant.

Fíli froze in the act of picking up one of his knives, jaw dropping open as he stared at his uncle, dumbfounded. Óin pulled out his ear trumpet and checked to see if it was blocked, and Thorin barely refrained from rolling his eyes as the rest of the company showed similar signs of disbelief.

“Come on,” the king addressed the dwarves, “we are going to pay a visit to the heart of the Woodland Realm.”

He crossed to the edge of the clearing, before stopping to look back over his shoulder at Legolas and arching an eyebrow.

“If you would lead on, Master Elf? I would not want to keep you from your father,” he said levelly, concealing his glee as the prince jumped fractionally and frowned.

_ Perhaps there is something to be said for polite talk after all,  _ he thought as the elf regained his poise and stalked past regally. He was certainly enjoying being able to needle the elf in such a way that Legolas couldn’t take offense without being first to break etiquette.

They strode quickly through the forest, the two groups eyeing each other warily.

“< _Mind your tongues, >” _Thorin said quietly in Khuzdul to the dwarves, making a point of catching Glóin’s eye. “< _The last thing we need is to be thrown in an Elvish cell to rot. And do not mention our burglar; he is safe, and nearby. It is best that he remain a secret. >” _

Legolas glanced down at him, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. Thorin did his best to look innocent, bringing to mind the faces that his nephews often used to devastating effect on his sister. Beside him, Balin snorted. _Perhaps innocence is not my strong suit._

“If I may ask,” the elf prince said cautiously, “Where did you come by your sword? It is of Elvish make, is it not?”

Thorin brushed _Orcrist’s_ hilt protectively.

“Aye, forged by the High Elves of Gondolin, or so Lord Elrond told me,” he replied warily.

“Lord Elrond?” the elf’s eyebrows rose. “You came from Imladris?”

The king nodded, and added, “Yes, we found Lord Elrond to be a _most_ gracious host.”

Legolas studied him, his brow wrinkled slightly, then glanced ahead of them where the auburn haired elf walked gracefully at the front of the group.

Kíli took a few quick steps to catch up to the warrior, looking up at her with a flash of his white teeth.

“You have quite a talent with your blades, my Lady..?” he trailed off, grinning up at her expectantly.

She glanced down at him before returning her attention to scanning the forest professionally. 

“I am Tauriel.”

Kíli’s smile broadened, and he inclined his head in a bow, adding in a flourish with his hand.

“Kíli, at your service.”

The corner of Tauriel’s mouth quirked up in a fleeting smirk, and the dwarf prince looked incredibly pleased with himself.

The mismatched group rounded a corner, and the gate to the Elvish kingdom came into view. Thorin glanced over his shoulder as they crossed over the rushing river, hoping that Bilbo was following them. They entered the tall gate, and the vast beauty of the Wood Elves’ homeland was spread out before them.

“Welcome, Thorin and company, to the Halls of King Thranduil,” said Legolas, gesturing regally.

Even Thorin had to admit that it was an impressive sight. Gargantuan trees blended flawlessly with natural rock formations and towering columns, and though the overall effect was a bit thin and fragile looking for the king’s taste, he could appreciate the artistry behind it all.

The elf prince led them across raised, winding pathways, and Thorin took a slow breath to brace himself. He knew where they were headed. _King Thranduil._ Forcing politeness with an elf that had saved his life was one matter, but doing the same with the coward that had turned aside when his people needed them most? He wasn’t certain he was capable of civility where the elf king was concerned.

_ He came to Dain’s aid when I was blinded by the gold sickness,  _ a more charitable part of him thought. He sighed unhappily, earning an enquiring glance from Balin. _I will try._

Legolas paused at a cross roads.

“I will take you to the king now,” he said to Thorin, “If the rest of your company will follow Captain Tauriel, she will see they receive food and water.”

Thorin hesitated, loathe to part from the others. He knew how tenuous their situation was. The pretence of hospitality was the only fragile protection they had against a repeat of their last stay in the prison cells. 

_ I have no choice.  _ He met Balin’s eyes, trying to convey the need for caution in a look, and his old advisor nodded imperceptibly. He followed Legolas up a set of stairs, two of the warriors trailing them while the rest escorted the dwarves away.

The Elvish Lord was lounging indolently across his throne as Thorin stepped up to the dais. He felt the first glimmer of irritation at the disdainful glance the elf king swept over him, and grit his teeth.

“You stand in the presence of Thranduil, King of the Woodland Realm,” Legolas said loftily, and the elf-king rose.

“We have met,” the elf said, descending the steps slowly, his cloak trailing behind him.

Thorin eyed the guards apprehensively, half expecting them to spring forward and seize him as they had on his first visit. He forced himself to resist the sudden urge to draw _Orcrist,_ balling his hands into fists.

“I wonder what brings Thorin, son of Thrain to my realm,” said Thranduil, and despite the polite words his melodic voice dripped with contempt.

“Some may imagine that a noble quest is at hand,” the elf circled past the dwarf, staring distantly out into the cavern. “A quest to reclaim a homeland, and slay a dragon.”

Thorin held himself still by force of will as the elf lord continued. Anger and trepidation demanded action, and he dug his nails into his palms, locking his muscles tight against the impulse.

“I myself suspect a more prosaic motive. Attempted burglary, or something of that ilk.”

Thranduil bent down to meet Thorin’s eyes consideringly, and the dwarf king bristled at the way the elf used his greater height.

“You’ve found a way in. You seek that which would bestow upon you the right to rule,” he said, moving backward with sinuous grace, “The King’s Jewel. The Arkenstone.”

_ Arkenstone.  _ The name brought back a flood of unpleasant memories, and the elf-king’s words seemed to cut at him painfully. He recalled the all encompassing anger that had suffused him when Thranduil and Bard had revealed their prize at the gate. Shame tinted the edges of his irritation as he remembered what had followed. _I did not deserve Bilbo’s forgiveness for that dishonourable mess._

“It is precious to you beyond measure. I understand that. There are gems in the mountain that I too desire. White gems of pure starlight.”

_ Precious beyond measure.  _ He felt vaguely sick. His infuriation with the elf grew to flaming outrage, fueled by his agitation and disgrace, and his expression darkened as the elf-king inclined his head graciously.

“I offer you my help.”

He drew in a shaking breath, ready to lash out harshly at the elf, consequences be damned. 

And froze.

Soft fingers brushed lightly over the back of his arm, trailing down to squeeze his hand. His eyes darted down before he could stop them. There was no-one standing beside him. _Bilbo._ He coughed out his breath awkwardly, wrenching his gaze back to Thranduil and hoping the elf hadn’t noticed anything amiss. 

The hobbit’s touch had jolted him out of his anger, and he was able to nod curtly.

“I will accept your offer,” he managed to say, though it felt as if he had to force his mouth to form the words. “Your aid, in return for the White Gems of Lasgalen.”

Thranduil’s eyes glittered triumphantly.

“Done.”

Thorin squeezed Bilbo’s unseen fingers gently, and tried to convince himself he hadn’t just signed away his soul.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter down! In which Thorin is a terrible nanny, a damsel in distress, and is going to develop a nervous tic if he has to be polite to any more elves.
> 
> Cranky Legolas gives me far too much glee to write.
> 
> Chapter three will be up in a few days, in the mean time anyone is welcome to come visit me on [tumblr](http://theladyzephyr.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter 3

Thorin felt exhausted as he followed Legolas back down the stairs and across the curving walkways. The rest they’d gotten at Beorn’s house seemed like an age ago, and after trudging through the forest and battling the spiders, the effort required to keep his temper in check had sapped the last reserves of his energy.

“There is a feast tonight,” said the elf prince as they walked. “You are all welcome to join us.”

His tone sounded stiffly formal and detached, and Thorin smiled to himself, grateful to realise that he wasn’t the only one frustrated with all the manners and courtesy. _He is not_ so _bad, for an elf,_ he thought, and then was promptly disgusted with himself.

Legolas led him to a section of the kingdom that he hadn’t seen on his first visit. The pathway curled gently around the bole of a massive tree, spiralling upwards with artfully carved doors spaced at regular intervals along it. He heard the murmuring voices of the company travelling out of an open door partway up the trunk, an elf guard standing casually outside.

He entered the room to find the dwarves gathered in a fair sized bedroom. Elf sized beds were worked into the sloping bark of the walls, six in total, and glowing torches and a chandelier bathed the chamber in gentle light. Thorin perked up when he saw the far wall housed a bench laden with food.

They looked up expectantly when he walked in, and Legolas said, “Use this time to rest and recover your strength. Someone will be sent for you when the feast is due to begin.”

He turned to Thorin. 

“There is a room for you two doors above. If you have need of anything, send the guard.”

The elf spun on his heel and stalked gracefully from the room, and Thorin swore he heard him mutter something in Elvish under his breath. He grinned, perversely pleased that the elf was annoyed.

“It went well, then?” Balin asked, and Thorin thought he should probably feel offended at the dwarf’s sceptical tone, if it wasn’t so well earned.

“He offered a deal,” the king said, crossing to the table and selecting a chunk of soft bread.

“And?” Balin prompted as he tore into the loaf.

“I took it,” Thorin said shortly, not particularly keen to discuss the matter. “The elf-king will give us what aid he can, in return for the white gems once promised to him.”

“Good, that’s good!” Balin said agreeably, and Glóin muttered unhappily from where he was sprawled on the floor.

“Get some rest,” he told the company, “And stay alert. I will not trust that we are truly free to leave these halls until they are far behind us.”

He gathered up as much of the food as he could carry, and trudged out of the room. The next door up the gently sloping path was open to show a room twin to the first, and the one after that led to a smaller chamber with a single large bed. He dumped the armful of food on an intricately carved side table, and collapsed on the bed with a groan.

“Close the door behind you,” he grunted, his voice muffled in the soft blankets.

Bilbo’s quiet chuckle sounded from behind him, and there was a click as he shut the door.

“The elves will think you mad if they catch you talking to yourself,” he whispered teasingly.

Thorin snorted, rolling over and sitting up.

“Let them.”

Bilbo took off the ring, appearing with a flicker and rolling his eyes. Thorin gestured at the pile of food.

“Help yourself, I brought enough.”

Bilbo let out a groan that Thorin resolutely refused to think too much about, and fell to with a will.

“Thranduil is up to something,” the hobbit said around a mouthful of something green and leafy, settling himself on the floor.

“I know,” Thorin sighed, “But it is better that we receive even a semblance of his good will, rather than a trip to the dungeons, trust me.”

“You’ve stayed in an Elvish dungeon before?” Bilbo asked, tilting his head quizzically, “That must be an interesting tale.”

Thorin blinked, floundering.

“Ah… no, that is… I haven’t,” he hedged awkwardly, cursing himself for the slip.

Bilbo smiled at him, amused. The king busied himself by reaching over and taking a slice of cheese, avoiding the halfling’s eyes as he ate.

“So I take it you want me to remain as Master Nobody?” Bilbo asked, and Thorin seized on the change of topic gratefully.

“Yes, if that is alright with you.”

The hobbit waved a hand.

“Of course, of course; I am your burglar after all.” He wagged a finger at Thorin and added, “So long as you feed me.”

“It is a bargain,” Thorin smiled in reply.

His jaws creaked in a yawn, and he eyed his filth encrusted clothes, glancing up at the bed longingly. _Clean up first, rest afterwards,_ he told himself firmly. He forced himself to his feet, stretching out his arms above his head and arching his back. He crossed the room to where a wash basin and a pitcher of water sat atop a cabinet. His investigation of the cabinet’s contents yielded a fine ivory comb and a sturdy brush.

He tossed the brush over to Bilbo, who began sweeping off the worst of the dirt and cobwebs from his clothes, tutting over the tattered edges of his coat. Thorin poured some of the water into the basin, and finger combed his hair to remove the web and sticks before attacking it systematically with the comb. When all the snarls had been tamed, and he’d wiped down his gore splattered face, he felt halfway decent again. His fur cloak had taken the majority of the damage from the mud and the spider entrails, and after shucking it off he was fairly clean.

The king sank gratefully on to the edge of the bed, and hit a mental road block as he realised that Bilbo didn’t have anywhere to sleep. _Do NOT blush,_ he thought furiously, _you are nearly two centuries old._

“Do you mind if I…?” Bilbo asked with an easy smile, gesturing to the bed while he smothered a yawn.

Thorin shook his head, clearing his throat

“No, of course not, go ahead”

The hobbit climbed under the blankets, curling up with his back facing Thorin and letting out a relaxed sigh. The dwarf lay down carefully, moving slowly to avoid accidentally brushing against him. He lay back to back with the halfling, listening to his steady breathing. He would have wagered any amount of gold that he didn’t have a chance of falling asleep with Bilbo so near, but the long day caught up to him, and he drifted to dreamless sleep.

***

He woke an indeterminate amount of time later to a tapping sound, and something tickling his nose. He briefly considered opening his eyes, but he was blessedly comfortable and content, and sleep began to lull him again. 

The knocking noise came again, rousing him once more and-

_ Oh. _

Bilbo huffed out an irritated breath and buried his head deeper into where it was buried: between the king’s shoulder and neck. The hobbit had an arm draped across Thorin’s chest, and the tickling sensation came from his tousled curls. 

Thorin’s mind was completely and utterly blank, and he stared at the patterned ceiling immobilized. 

“Lord Oakenshield?” came a polite, musical voice from outside the door to his room.

Panic seized him, the sudden swing in emotion serving to completely derail his thoughts.

“Bilbo!” he hissed, sitting up slightly and jostling the hobbit’s shoulder.

The halfling clung to him tighter, groaning in sleepy annoyance.

“I will be with you in a moment!” Thorin called, and then quieter, “Bilbo, wake up!”

The hobbit stretched, and Thorin jumped slightly as his nose brushed the skin under his jawline. _This is a twisted, cruel joke, played at my expense._

Bilbo stilled suddenly, and there was a beat of silence before he scrabbled upright, eyes wide and mouth hanging open in shock.

Thorin reached forward and held a hand over his mouth as he started to squeak, and the hobbit froze again. The dwarf inclined his head towards the door, and Bilbo’s eyes darted over and back, widening in understanding. He removed his hand slowly, and the hobbit cringed in embarrassment, mouthing “ _Sorry!_ ”

The king threw the blanket back, and got to his feet in a rush.

“The ring, quickly!” he whispered, and Bilbo fumbled in his pocket before flitting out of existence. 

Thorin took a deep, bracing breath, trying to gather the scattered threads of his composure. He did a last check to reassure himself that Bilbo was hidden completely, and opened the door.

An elf guard was standing outside his door with a benignly polite expression.

“The Feast of Starlight is about to begin, my lord,” he intoned levelly, “If you will follow me?”

Thorin took _Orcrist_ as he exited the room, attaching it deftly to its customary spot on his back. Carrying the weapon when he was allegedly Thranduil’s guest was a slight likely to get the elf-king’s back up, but he didn’t trust him enough to go without it. Thorin re-joined the company, who all looked in much better shape after their brief rest, and together they followed the impassive guard across the twisting paths.

They were led ever upwards, climbing spiralling staircases and winding ramps. The dwarves avoided going too close to the edges, eyeing the long, long drop back to the ground far below and muttering uneasily. Thorin agreed with the sentiment; the wood felt too fragile under his feet compared to the solid stone heights of Erebor. A last flight of steps rose steeply before them, the candles and sconces reducing gradually in number so that the last several yards were pitch black by comparison. 

Their escort stood to one side, gesturing for them to continue. Thorin took the lead, stepping warily out of the golden light and into the shadows. His eyes adjusted quickly, and he saw that the open doorway above was not dark, but glowing softly with a white, pure light.

He stepped through, and the scene before him took his breath away.

They were on the roof of the massive caverns. A vast hall spread out before them, filled with long narrow tables overladen with food and wine. The tops of the great trees stretched their elegant, silver-barked limbs across the wide platform, and their red leaves rustled in the soft breeze. The fair folk flowed gracefully about, their high voices tinkling in song and laughter, and soft music wound through the crowd from a scattering of musicians.

Not a single candle or torch burned, but the gathering was bathed in light. Above them the heavens were ablaze with stars.

“Beautiful…” whispered Kíli, his dark eyes alight with reflected white pinpricks.

Glóin snorted, but even he didn’t seem to be able to find any words of derision. 

Tauriel strode up to them, clad simply and elegantly in an outfit similar to her practical garb from earlier, but without the leather bracers.

“I am to be your escort tonight,” she said to the dwarves, looking less than pleased at the idea. “If you will follow me?”

She led them to the far right of the hall, as far as it was possible to be from the central table with it’s high backed chair topped with antlers, clearly intended for Thranduil. Thorin couldn’t bring himself to be too insulted at the slight; it meant he wouldn’t have to talk to the elf-king.

Tauriel took a seat, and Kíli cut in front of his brother to place himself beside her, grinning triumphantly. The others seated themselves around the end of the table, staring unabashedly at the plates heaped with every kind of food imaginable. 

Thranduil made a grand entrance, his long cloak flowing artfully behind him as he stalked gracefully over to his seat. Thorin rolled his eyes. _Pompous fool._

The elf spoke ceremoniously in Elvish, and Thorin noticed with amusement that Bifur and Bombur had snuck some food off the platters and were chewing obnoxiously. The elf-king concluded with a grand flourish of his hand, and the elves dove into the feast happily. The food was surprisingly good, if a little lightly spiced for dwarven palates; there was even meat, succulently roasted.

The company set out to be as rowdy and boisterous as a troupe of dwarves could be, and Tauriel sat stunned as they threw food back and forth, sloshing wine and mead about indiscriminately. Thorin was content to watch as they bantered, feeling rather pleased with himself. This was leaps and bounds better than their last stay in the Woodland Realm, even if it had bruised his pride to bow to Thranduil’s request. He felt a momentary pang for poor Bilbo, no doubt hiding nearby, and resolved to steal as much as he could to pass on to the ever-ravenous hobbit.

After their hunger was sated, the elves began to move to a large open space, twirling and leaping gracefully in complex dances to the haunting music. Kíli, by this point red cheeked and rather tipsy, got to his feet in a rush.

“Come on, Fíli, let’s show them how it’s done!”

_ Oh no,  _ thought Thorin mildly as Fíli got up and his nephews trotted away towards the musicians. 

“Ah, are you sure they should be…?” asked Balin worriedly, and Thorin shrugged.

“I’m sure our _host_ will not mind if they cause a little fuss,” he said with a wicked grin.

Balin scoffed, “You’re just as bad as they are!”

The old dwarf turned to Tauriel and asked beseechingly, “Aren’t you going to do anything about this either?”

The she-elf watched as Kíli stopped in front of a pair of the players, gesturing enthusiastically at the violins in the elves’ hands.

“My Lord Thranduil assigned me to be your nurse maid as a penance for a situation outside of my control,” she said, and Thorin could have sworn there was a glint of mischief in her green eyes. “If he is unhappy with the way I carry out this duty, then perhaps he should not have given me a task so far outside the realm of my talents.”

Thorin chuffed out a soft laugh before could stop himself. Across the hall the musicians Kíli had singled out were looking about nonplussed in the face of the dwarf’s exaggerated pantomimes. When no help materialized from their fellows, they handed the instruments over gingerly. 

Kíli beamed happily and passed one violin to his brother, and as one they brought the instruments to their shoulders. They played a single, long, lingering note, and the elves near them paused in their dance to consider them in confusion. 

There was a beat of silence, and then the brothers’ fingers flew across the strings as they wrought a frolicking, cheerful, melody from the instruments. The tune was so very different from the slow, beautiful harmonies of the elves’ music, and yet under the dwarves’ skilful guidance it seemed to weave through the greater melody, brightening it and speeding it along.

Kíli stepped left, and Fíli stepped right, and they twirled about together as they played, throwing the melody back and forth with ever increasing complexity. They ducked and weaved through the confused elves, even skipping up onto the tables before leaping off again. Thorin grinned broadly at his nephews, and let out a ringing laugh when he caught sight of Thranduil through the crowd. The elf-king was stock-still and staring in disbelief, mouth hanging open in a manner unlike his usual poise.

Fíli went down on one knee to smile kindly at a young elf boy, the first elf-child Thorin could remember seeing since the days before Smaug. The youth’s eyes were wide as he watched Fíli, and as the dwarf finished a stanza with a particularly spectacular flourish he gave a musical, tinkling laugh and clapped his hands.

The child’s laughter seemed to wake the elves from their stupefaction. They rose to dance once more, adapting to the faster pace with grace and skill. Thranduil scowled at their merriment wrathfully, and the moment was so sweet that Thorin could almost forgive fate for everything it had thrown at him on the journey so far.

Kíli sauntered back towards their table, bow sawing swiftly across his strings, and bowed deeply to Tauriel with a rakish grin, never missing a single note. The elf maiden returned the smile, eyes twinkling merrily, and Thorin narrowed his eyes at them suspiciously. _Surely not._

The brothers rejoined each other for a last feverish pass through the melody, then wound the song to completion with a flourish. They held their positions with the fiddles at their chins for several silent beats, then relaxed and lowered the instruments as the elves clapped delightedly. The princes returned the fiddles and came back to the company’s table, panting slightly, with red smudging their faces and a light sheen of sweat on their skin.

“I had never heard dwarven music before, it is a thing of beauty,” Tauriel said joyfully as Kíli sat down to lounge on the bench beside her.

“Yes, we’re rather talented, aren’t we?” he replied jauntily, snagging a glass of wine and downing the contents in a single draught.

The elf maiden raised her eyebrows at him.

“Well, you do not have the skills of an Elvish musician, but then allowances must be made for your… shortcomings.”

Kíli’s eyes widened in delight, and he leant forward with a mock scowl. Thorin looked at Fíli, and they exchanged a wary glance as Kíli continued to banter with the elf. _We are being ridiculous,_ Thorin chided himself, _that does not mean… what it looks like it means._ He felt the beginnings of a headache. 

The feast wound down to a close, and their blank faced escort from earlier returned to take them back to their rooms. Tauriel walked with them part of the way, wishing them goodnight with far greater enthusiasm than she had greeted them at the start of the evening. The company trooped back up the ramp to their quarters, their steps for the most part unsteady and wandering thanks to the copious amounts of alcohol they’d imbibed.

Thorin left his door open after he entered his room, noting with pleased surprise that his cloak had been cleaned while he was out. He put down the bundle stuffed with food that he’d smuggled out in his shirt, and sat down on the bed and settled in to wait for the hobbit. Several minutes passed, and a sliver of unease wormed its way through his chest. Time ticked forward, till the sounds of the dwarves nearby faded to muffled snores.

“Bilbo?” he whispered quietly.

Only silence answered. 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where is Bilbo?! Who knows!
> 
> This chapter was too much fun to write. I thought it was time Thorin caught a break and actually managed to improve on things for once...at least for now. Bonus points to Kili for seduction via musical prowess. I am enjoying giving Kiliel a chance to develop without cell bars in the way.
> 
> Thanks to [StrivingArtist](http://archiveofourown.org/users/StrivingArtist/pseuds/StrivingArtist/works) and [Mephestopheles](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mephestopheles/works) for letting me flail at them over my writing conundrums, and being the two devils on my shoulders luring me to the dark side when it comes to writing angst.


	4. Chapter 4

Bilbo did not return. Thorin spent a sleepless night pacing back and forth in his room, dithering over what to do. The hours crept by, agonizingly slow. _Bilbo can handle this_ , he thought, clamping down on his escalating panic. He knew that the hobbit was more than capable of remaining undetected in the Elvish Kindom; he’d done it before, after all. _That’s no guarantee that he won’t be caught this time._

He spun and knocked the empty wash basin to the floor with an echoing clang. He clenched his fists, furious with himself; he hadn’t fallen apart like this the last time he’d suspected Bilbo was sneaking through the Elvish halls. Logically, he should be less worried, since he now knew the hobbit had the magic ring to aid in his skulking.

_ The difference _ , he thought, sinking back down onto the bed and resting his head in his hands, _is that you know what he means to you_. He let out a shuddering sigh. _I cannot lose him, not now_. His instincts were screaming to just go and find Bilbo, never mind that the odds of stumbling into an invisible hobbit in the vast kingdom were nigh on impossible.

Somehow, he made it through the night without seizing Orcrist and charging out of his room in search of the halfling. When he reckoned that dawn must be nearly upon them, he took a firm hold of the whirling mess of worry, and stomped into the company’s room.

“Balin, wake up!” he snapped, and the old dwarf jumped and flailed in his bed.

“What? Thorin, laddie, what is it?” he asked, peering blearily up at the king.

The other dwarves in the room began to stir, sleepy concern on their faces.

“It’s Bilbo. He was supposed to check in with me after the feast. He’s _missing.”_

Balin blinked away the last of his sleepiness, eyes turning sharp. 

“When did you last see him?” he asked.

“Wait a second,” Dwalin interrupted gruffly, “how did he even get in here in the first place?”

Fíli entered from the direction of the other room, looking about with mild concern.

“Is Kíli in here?” he asked, then stopped with a frown as he took in Thorin’s expression.

“Kíli is missing too?!” Thorin rounded on his nephew.

“He wasn’t there when I woke,” Fíli answered, then his frown deepened, “What do you mean – missing _too?”_

Balin answered as Thorin snarled wordlessly, “Bilbo was supposed to report in.”

The prince looked at Thorin, understanding his temper.

“Gather your gear,” Thorin snapped, “Fíli, fetch the others. We are going to find them, and then we are leaving.”

“Thorin!” a familiar voice squeaked from the corridor, and the king spun to see Bilbo dash into the room.

“Thorin!” he repeated, panting heavily, “We need to-“

“Where were you?!” the king interrupted angrily, rounding on the hobbit. “I thought you were captured! Are you injured? What did they do to you?!”

Bilbo tried to speak, but couldn’t get a word in through the king’s questions.

“WILL YOU BE QUIET!” he cried, throwing up his hands in exasperation. 

Thorin snapped his mouth shut on the rest of his tirade, clamping down on the fear and relief that had been fuelling the rant. _He is safe. He is here. I have not lost him._

“Thank you!” the hobbit snapped, then he paused, “I mean, sorry-“

“Bilbo, what is it?” Balin cried in frustration.

The hobbit recollected his thoughts, “We need to leave, right now. I followed Thranduil after the feast.”

“You followed-?” Thorin choked out, but Balin waved a hand at him for quiet.

“I heard him speak to Legolas; he means to send an escort of elves with us to the Mountain.”

Balin frowned, “I don’t fancy travelling with elves, but I don’t see how that would-“

Bilbo spoke over him, “He told Legolas to help us find the hidden door, but then to prevent us from using it! To take us prisoner!”

Thorin frowned. Though the elf-king’s treachery was hardly surprising, he was uncertain of the motive behind the strategy. If he didn’t want them to reach Erebor at all, why not just take them prisoner now? If he wanted his people to enter the Mountain in their stead, why not hold them until they revealed what they knew, rather than risk the unpredictability of taking them out on the road?

“He said to wait until the door was open, to see if…” Bilbo looked into Thorin’s eyes, and he faltered. “To see if… we keep our word.”

The king’s chest clenched. _To see if I am taken by the same sickness as my grandfather._

“I have a way out,” Bilbo said, looking at Thorin with concern. “We need to leave now while everything is quiet.”

“But we can’t!” Fíli cried, “Kíli is missing!”

“What?!” Bilbo asked, and Thorin paced back and forth, thinking furiously.

The dwarves began to argue amongst themselves, the noise drawing the other half of the company. 

“Bilbo!” said Bofur happily, accompanied by similar happy cries from the newcomers, “When did you get here?”

“Everyone be quiet!” Thorin roared, and they all turned to look at him. “Bilbo, sneak down to the cellars and make sure the way out is clear. The rest of you, pack your things NOW. We are going to find Kíli, and then we are going to leave this accursed place.”

The dwarves bustled about, grumbling as they went but keeping it to soft mutterings to avoid Thorin’s wrath. Bilbo was looking at Thorin with the strangest expression, almost perplexed, and the king put a hand on his shoulder.

“Go,” he said softly, “We will find Kíli and meet you there.”

The hobbit opened his mouth as if he was going to say something, but then closed it and nodded instead. He peered cautiously out of the door before slipping out, no doubt putting on the ring as soon as he was out of sight.

Thorin hounded the dwarves through the last of their packing and out of the room, temper flaring at his absent nephew. The company marched quickly down the pathway, and the king spied Legolas stalking along a cross roads up ahead.

“Elf!” he shouted, and the prince turned to look at him in irritation.

“I am busy, dwarf,” he replied shortly, the forced politeness from the day before all but absent. 

Thorin stepped in front of the elf as he started to move on, his anger conveyed in the stiff lines of his posture.

“Kíli is missing,” he spat, glaring down the elf’s annoyance, “Where is he?”

Legolas broke the stare, looking down to the side and clenching his jaw.

“He is at the archery range. With Tauriel. I just received word.”

“You will take us there,” Thorin said firmly, and the words trembled with dark anger. “Now.”

The elf’s lip curled in a sneer, and he pushed past the dwarf without checking to see if he was followed. 

He led the troupe of dwarves to a cavern that was bathed in sunlight that streamed down from rocky fissures overhead. Groups of elven archers shot methodically at the targets scattered throughout the stones and trees, and to one side Thorin’s nephew stood with the elf captain. Kíli had an arrow nocked on his bowstring, and he sighted down its length to a target hanging from a branch across the range.

“Your elbow is still too high,” Tauriel said teasingly, resting her fingers lightly on the dwarf’s forearm and shifting it slightly.

“I already know how to shoot,” Kíli protested, scowling.

“Apparently, you do not,” she replied with a grin.

Kíli released the arrow, and it zipped across to sink into the dead centre of the target.

“Actually, I do,” he said through a smirk, gesturing triumphantly, “And there are countless orcs, goblins and wargs that could attest to the matter, were they not long dead.”

“Kíli!” Thorin snarled at the same time that Legolas called out “Tauriel!”

They startled and looked up, wearing twin expressions of sheepish dismay. Kíli took a half step backwards, so that his shoulder brushed lightly against Tauriel’s side. Thorin crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes, until he noticed that Legolas was glaring at the archers with the exact same pose. 

The elf-prince stepped forward, speaking to Tauriel in fast Elvish, his posture taut and unhappy.

“Ah, hello Thorin,” Kíli said apprehensively, trying out an innocent smile in a doomed attempt to placate his uncle.

“Come with us. Now,” Thorin replied tersely.

“But I – “ Kíli stopped at the look on his uncle’s face.

Thorin spun and marched back the way he had come, gesturing for the rest of the company to follow, and Kíli exchanged a last glance with Tauriel before trailing after them. They hurried along the twisting pathways, and Thorin tried to walk with a confident swagger whenever they passed an elf. He figured their best bet was to look as if they had somewhere important to be, and hope that no one stopped them.

There was one small problem with his plan.

He had no idea where he was going.

Last time, Bilbo had been there to lead them down to the cellars, and he had been too caught up the happy, bubbly feeling that the hobbit’s appearance and rescue had caused to pay much attention. Cursing under his breath in Khuzdul, he stalked up to a passing elf.

“Excuse me,” he said, attempting a smile that probably turned out more as a grimace, judging by the elf’s wary look. “We seem to have lost our way. We are due to meet Prince Legolas in the cellars.”

He mentally kicked himself at the terrible lie. Thankfully, Nori stepped forward to address the sceptical elf, inclining his head graciously.

“Our apologies, m’lord,” he said with an ingratiating smile, “But our escort was called away on accoun’ of some business for King Thranduil. We wouldn’ want to keep the prince waiting, diplomacy between our two peoples being such a delicate matter n’ all.”

The elf glanced around, but there was no-one else in sight. His expression remained guarded, but he nodded at them and led them back the way they had come before taking a side path. Thorin gestured approvingly at Nori.

They reached the stairway that Thorin recognised as the one that lead to the cellars, and he breathed a sigh of relief. The elf paused, peering into the room and frowning. The two drunken guardsmen from Thorin’s first journey were once again snoring on the table.

Thorin drew a knife silently as their escort paused in confusion. He took advantage of the elf’s distraction to rap him swiftly in the temple with the blade’s pommel, and he tumbled down the stairs in a boneless heap.

“Was that really necessary?” Bilbo asked, stepping out from behind a barrel and twisting his lips disapprovingly.

“Bilbo!” said Kíli happily and loudly, and the hobbit shushed him while glancing over his shoulder at the comatose guards.

“We could not have him raising the alarm,” Thorin said, feeling guilty in response to Bilbo’s displeasure. 

“Why are we in the cellars?” Fíli asked, looking between Thorin and Bilbo in confusion.

Bilbo caught Thorin’s eye before answering, and there was something in his expression that made the king feel vaguely troubled.

“We are getting out,” the hobbit whispered, beckoning and moving further into the room, “This way!”

“There’s nowhere to hide down here!” Dwalin hissed angrily, “What are you two playing at?”

“Climb into the barrels, quickly,” Bilbo ordered.

The company grumbled unhappily, but Thorin headed off any argument.

“Do as he says, you must trust him.”

With much eye rolling and muttering the company did as Bilbo asked.

“You too!” Bilbo said to Thorin, glancing back up to the entrance, where they could hear muffled Elvish shouts.

“Tell me, Master Burglar,” he replied, “how are you intending on leaving?”

Bilbo blinked, nonplussed.

“Er…”

The king snorted in amusement.

“Get in a barrel, mighty saviour, I will handle the lever.”

He chivvied the protesting hobbit into a barrel, and returned to the switch.

“What do we do now?” Bofur asked.

Thorin grinned, wide and feral.

“Hold onto your weapons.”

And he pulled the lever.

The dwarves yelled as the platform began to tip, and Thorin darted forward, pushing off the wine rack and sliding feet first into a barrel just as it started to roll. There was a series of splashes as they fell into the river, and the cold water sprayed into Thorin’s face.

“Well done Bilbo,” the king said warmly, and the hobbit waved a hand at him from his barrel as he blinked the water from his eyes.

“Come on, hurry!” Thorin ordered, paddling with his hands and pushing off the rocky sides of the tunnel.

They bobbed along the passageway until they were expelled from the Woodland Realm in the churning rapids of a waterfall. The barrels tipped and lurched in the rushing current, and an elf horn sounded loudly over the roaring water.

Thorin drew _Orcrist_ from its sheath on his back as the water gate came into sight around a bend, bracing himself determinedly on the side of the barrel with his other hand. _This particular fight is going to go a little differently._

An elf warrior sprinted to close the gate, and Dwalin cried out “NO!” from the front of the group.

The barrels bottle-necked against the gate, and this time Thorin was at the rear of the group rather than trapped under the bridge.

He sucked in a deep breath and began to shout, gesturing emphatically behind the elves.

“ORCS! ORCS IN THE TREES!”

He vaulted onto the rim of the barrel as the elf warrior nearest to him glanced over his shoulder. A black fletched arrow ricocheted off of the elf’s shoulder pad, spinning past Thorin’s head. The elves shouted in shock, spinning to face the new threat as dozens of orcs scrambled over the barricade to fall upon them with foul cries and slender Elvish blades clashed against orc scimitars.

The king leapt across to the shore, swinging _Orcrist_ in a mighty sweep and slicing the head off a slavering orc. The dwarves yelled as more of the creatures leapt onto the barrels, and Thorin ducked and weaved as he struggled to reach the lever. 

“Thorin!” yelled Fíli, trying to reach his uncle, but an orc launched itself at him, clinging to the barrel and screeching.

Thorin heard a sickening thud from across the river, and looked up to see a hulking orc straightening to stand over the body of an elf he’d just crushed horribly. It was the creature that had shot his nephew on their first journey, the one that had come tumbling down the mountainside at Ravenhill with Tauriel as she screamed in grief and anger. _Bolg._

“Kíli!” he shouted frantically, the force of the cry tearing at his throat as he recoiled to dodge an orc’s vicious thrust, “Kíli! Shoot him!”

His nephew put an arrow to his string, awkwardly encumbered by the sides of the barrel as it rolled in the churning water. The huge orc drew his own bow and sighted at Thorin. 

Kíli loosed first. 

The shaft whistled through the air to sink into Bolg’s ruined left eye. The monster screeched in pain, and his arrow flew wide, clattering against the stones a hair’s breadth from Thorin’s side.

“I stand corrected, you can shoot after all!” called a clear voice, and Tauriel sprinted up to the gate, loosing an arrow at an orc that was bearing down on Thorin.

“Tauriel!” the prince cried happily as the elves joined the fight.

Thorin crossed the last few steps to the lever and slammed it down, and the gate below opened with a creak. The barrel he had been in bounced off a rock and zipped away along with several of the company, and he hesitated atop the bridge.

“Thorin!” Bilbo called, backing up as far as he could to clear a space in his barrel.

The king jumped, falling forward onto the hobbit with a grunt. The current caught the last of the barrels and they were swept through the gate and down the cascading rapids. Thorin braced himself by gripping the wooden sides, and Bilbo clung to his chest, shoulders hunched against the splashing water.

The elves ran swiftly along the riversides, vaulting and twirling across the rocks and trees as they battled the orcs. The creatures flung themselves at the barrels and were swiftly repulsed; the company were armed with dwarf forged steel. It seemed to Thorin as if there were fewer orcs than he remembered. _Perhaps with Bolg injured or killed there is no one to drive them on?_

The river rushed along, and the increased pace sped them past the last of the orcs. Thorin turned to see Legolas perched atop a rock, frowning down at them in irritation as they were carried away, and he couldn’t help the triumphant taunt that escaped his lips.

The whitewater buffeted them about as they were borne swiftly downriver, and they soon left the pursuing orcs behind. Bilbo shifted against Thorin’s chest, and he realised with embarrassment that he had an arm looped halfway around the hobbit’s waist. He pulled back to steady himself against the barrel’s rim, trying to make the movement casual and unhurried. 

He avoided the hobbit’s gaze as the current slowed as the river widened. Part of him wanted to see what would happen if he leant forward and put his arms around Bilbo again. _It is not unreasonable to imagine that he might feel something for me in return… is it?_

The barrels bobbed gently along, and his mouth twisted to the side in a self-deprecating smile. _Focus,_ he thought sternly, _you cannot afford distractions if you are to save your nephews and your kingdom. There will be time for… that sort of thing… afterwards._

“Is there anything behind us?” the king called.

“Not that I can see!” Balin answered.

“I think we’ve outrun the orcs!” Bofur said optimistically, spurting river water from his mouth.

“Not for long, we’ve lost the current,” Thorin stated with a wary glance upriver, “Make for the shore!”

They paddled over to the rocky riverbank and clambered ashore. Thorin grasped Bilbo’s hand to help him out first, and then followed, cold water dripping from his clothes.

“What do we do now?” Balin asked as they caught their breath and wrung out sodden garments.

“We keep going to the Mountain of course, we’re so close,” Bilbo said, as if it were a foregone conclusion.

Thorin smiled warmly at him, and the halfling quirked his lips in return.

“A lake lies between us and that Mountain,” Balin argued, “We have no way to cross it.”

Thorin climbed up onto a rock, shading his eyes to look downriver.

“Yes, we do,” he said confidently.

The others crossed to follow his line of sight. The Bowman’s barge was moored at its stone dock, and Bard himself stood warily looking up at them, fingers gripping his weapon tightly.

“Hail, bargeman,” Thorin called, and the man’s hand stilled from where it had been drifting towards his quiver.

They climbed down to stand before the dock, and Thorin gestured subtly for Balin to talk to the Laketowner. He let his advisor handle the negotiations. They were better off than the last time they’d met the grim archer; no one was injured, and they had their gear and their weapons, but they would still need his help to enter Laketown unseen. 

The offer of payment was once again enough to convince Bard to risk the Master’s displeasure, and they traipsed onto the boat as the man made ready to cast off. The flat bottomed vessel slid silently through the icy water, and though it wasn’t entirely dry he was grateful for his fur lined cloak. The dwarves huddled at the bow of the barge, shoulders hunched and arms crossed against the cold.

Bofur nudged Thorin’s arm with his elbow, and when the king turned to look at him he jerked his head towards Bilbo, raising his eyebrows expectantly. The hobbit was shivering in his tattered red coat, his breath fogging the air. Thorin turned back to Bofur with a frown, and the miner smiled easily back at him, tilting his head to the side. The king understood the look; Bofur had seen that Bilbo was cold, but didn’t want to encroach when he knew of Thorin’s interest. 

Thorin inclined his head, feeling a mix of thankfulness and embarrassment. He thought with regret of the frostiness he’d shown Bofur on account of his jealousy. The miner was an asset to the company, and a loyal friend. Bofur rolled his eyes at him, and nodded towards Bilbo again. The king briefly grasped his arm in thanks, and crossed the deck to the hobbit.

“Here,” he said, shucking off his cloak and placing it around Bilbo’s shoulders. “We can’t have our burglar freezing to death when our goal is within our grasp.”

“Thorin, you can’t, what about you?” the hobbit protested, but he buried his fingers in the fur and drew it tighter about himself.

“Dwarves are much sturdier than you fragile halflings, I will be fine,” he teased, chuckling when Bilbo spluttered huffily. 

The hobbit cleared his throat and went to speak, but then he stilled, looking over the king’s shoulder in awe.

“Thorin…” he breathed, and there was so much raw feeling in the word that the king’s heart ached.

He turned, and there through the parting mists, tall and proud, was the Lonely Mountain.

_ Home. _

***

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By Durin's Beard, we are officially over the halfway mark!
> 
> The Mountain draws ever closer, and poor Thorin will soon have to face the dragon, and the treasure.
> 
> I couldn't resist the opportunity for a "Thorin has a terrible sense of direction" joke. What would he do without Bilbo, honestly.
> 
> Only two more chapters until we reach the end of Desolation of Smaug, then there will be a break while I finish off the Battle of Five Armies - it is shaping up to be huge.
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading and commenting! 
> 
> \- Lady Zee


	5. Chapter 5

Bard strode over to the bow of the barge, where the company was staring up at the Mountain. Bilbo cleared his throat to warn the dwarves of the Bowman’s approach.

“The money, quick, give it to me,” he said hurriedly.

Thorin tossed him the purse, with only minimal grumbling from the others. They were not quite as destitute as they had been on the first trip, and the smuggler’s fee did not take the entirety of their coin.

“Be wary,” he said grimly, “There are guards ahead.”

The dwarves fiddled with their weapons, shifting uneasily and peering at the looming shapes of the structures through the fog.

“Hide in the barrels,” Bard instructed as they neared the outpost.

“Not likely!” Dwalin growled fiercely.

Thorin put a hand on his friend’s shoulder, and the warrior subsided, muttering darkly. They climbed into the barrels again, and watched as the archer brought the barge up alongside the dock and disembarked.

“What’s he doing?” Dwalin hissed suspiciously.

“He’s talking to someone,” Bilbo whispered back. “And he’s… pointing right at us! Now they’re shaking hands!”

“He’s selling us out!” Dwalin snarled.

“Hush!” Thorin said tersely, closing his eyes with a heavy sigh for what he knew was coming. 

_ Couldn’t Bard have found us more pleasant camouflage?  _ He took a breath and held it, and then pounds of reeking, raw fish were poured on top of their heads. Thorin held himself still under the scaley mess as they cast off again, suffering silently as he listened to the barge creaking, and the bustling sounds of Esgaroth rolling across the water.

“Halt!” a lilting voice cried out, “Goods inspection! Papers please!”

Thorin spat out a chunk of fish flesh that had managed to work its way into his mouth as Bard negotiated them past the gatepost. The boat shifted slightly as the archer guided it through the streets, and it was a relief when Thorin heard them dock.

He extracted himself from the foul smelling barrel, flicking his fingers in mild disgust to try and dislodge some of the scales. 

“Follow me,” Bard instructed shortly, and he strode off, his long legs carrying him swiftly down the peer.

They followed, darting furtively between the buildings until Bard’s son approached them. 

“Da!” the lad said, “our house – it’s being watched!”

Thorin resigned himself as Bard directed them into the water as he had on their last visit. It was frigidly cold, and the added weight of his armour made pulling himself along under the filthy boardwalks even more difficult. He kept a concerned eye on Bilbo, but though his teeth were chattering the hobbit dragged himself forward doggedly. They waited under the Bowman’s house, clinging to the water-logged wood until they heard a knock from above.

One by one they clambered up and into the house, and Bard bundled them into the living room, handing out blankets and robes. Thorin suppressed a sigh of regret as Bilbo handed him back his fur cloak to swap it for one of Bard’s; he had enjoyed seeing the hobbit in his clothes. _At least he will be warm now._

He avoided focusing on the wind lance that could be seen out the window; it brought to mind a topic that he had been putting off dwelling on. _Smaug._

He sat on one of the oversized chairs, brooding as he watched the company wringing out their clothes and drying their weapons. The matter of the dragon weighed heavily on his mind. His memories of the night the beast had descended on Esgaroth were foggy at best, but he could still see red bursts of flame in the dark, and hear the roars and screams echoing faintly.

He could not in good conscience allow that fate to befall the people of Laketown again. 

“Are you alright?” Bilbo asked, cradling a cup of tea as he sat beside the king. 

He banished the unpleasant thoughts; there would be plenty of time to determine what to do about the dragon.

“I am fine,” he said, smiling at Bilbo reassuringly.

Bilbo studied him carefully before nodding fractionally in acceptance.

“I need to talk to you, when we get a moment alone,” the hobbit said cautiously, and Thorin’s stomach churned.

“Ah…” he replied awkwardly as his mind supplied a variety of reasons, some terrifying, some thrilling, why the halfling would need to speak to him in private. “That’s… very well.”

Bard walked over to them, wary suspicion written on his face.

“What will you do now?” he asked.

Thorin considered him, and answered, “We will wait for the cover of darkness, then we will take our leave of your town.”

The archer looked slightly mollified at the notion that he would soon be rid of the dwarves, and nodded.

“Very well, I will go and fetch the supplies I promised you.”

The Bowman exchanged a few quiet words with his son before he slipped away. Thorin settled back into his chair to wait. The dwarves were in a fine mood, buoyed no doubt by the thought that their destination was within their grasp, though they managed to watch their tongues tolerably well in front of Bard’s children.

Fíli and Bofur began to tell a raucous tale that had the boy grinning and his sisters giggling. Thorin thought idly that perhaps it was not all that appropriate for their ages, but he was comfortable on the couch with Bilbo sipping tea by his side. The story wasn’t _that_ bad. Bilbo made a choking noise as Bofur pantomimed a particularly violent section. _Or perhaps it is._

Bard returned, laden with packs of food, and Thorin thought back to their conversation about the wind lance from his last life. _He loosened a scale under the left wing. One more shot and he would have killed the beast._

He had taken the lad’s words as wishful thinking for his disgraced ancestor, but Bard _had_ killed the dragon. Somehow. _If only I knew how!_ He cursed the gold sickness for driving him to isolation in the time after the dragon’s death. Surely he had spoken with someone about the manner of the monster’s demise? He searched his memory, but the only thing that came to mind was Bilbo’s disbelieving cry, _“It fell! I saw it!”_

Logic followed that the archer had slain the beast with an arrow. Thorin grumbled unhappily, ignoring Bilbo when the hobbit looked up at him questioningly. This kind of planning had always been outside his realm of expertise. Split second decisions and tactics concocted on the fly had always been his forte, and he struggled with broad, far reaching strategy. _This is why a king has advisors,_ he thought crossly, _yet I am unable to consult with any of mine._

The waning sunlight shone golden through the windows of the dwelling, and the company made ready to depart. The others were swaggering and confident, but Thorin watched the setting sun with a sense of foreboding. Tomorrow was Durin’s Day. Tomorrow he would face a foe more dangerous than even Smaug. The treasure horde.

They slipped out of the door once night had fallen in earnest, Bard leading the way. They skulked across the board walks, ducking between the houses. Thorin watched the windows apprehensively, conscious of eyes on them. He would rather they avoid another meeting with the cloying Master of Laketown.

The tramp of heavy boots brought them up short, and Bard ducked under a stairwell, beckoning frantically. The squeezed in under the stairs, and two guardsmen strode around the corner, talking loudly.

“Dwarves, they said!” exclaimed one, “They say they have come to fulfil the prophecy; that once again gold will flow down the river from the Mountain!”

Bard’s posture stiffened. Thorin brought a hand up to rest against _Orcrist’s_ hilt warily, but the archer remained silent.

“Hah!” the second guard replied sceptically, “ _The Lord of Silver Fountains?_ Please!”

The pair clomped up the stairs right in front of them, their boots mere inches from Thorin’s nose. He held his breath, filled with tense apprehension. _If Bard makes a single noise…_

He didn’t. The men continued arguing as their voices faded from hearing, the circle of the torch light disappearing with them. They crawled out from their hiding place, and Bard rounded on them.

“Who are you?!” he hissed, dark eyes flashing in the moonlight.

“That’s none of your business,” grunted Dwalin, crossing his arms so that his knuckle dusters creaked ominously.

“It will be my business, or it will be the Master’s business,” the archer replied, using his height to loom over the warrior.

“I am Thorin,” the king interjected, meeting and holding Bard’s eyes. “Son of Thrain, Son of Thror. King Under the Mountain.”

The Bowman’s eyes widened in disbelief.

“You are going back to the Mountain…” he whispered, horrified.

“Bowman, listen – “ Thorin started, but Bard interrupted him.

“You… you will bring fire and death down upon us all!” his voice was getting gradually louder, and Thorin winced, looking at the surrounding houses.

“We will not – “

“ _But all shall fail in sadness, and the Lake will shine and burn”_ Bard recited, “I never should have helped you – “

“Bard, Descendant of Girion, LISTEN TO ME!” Thorin thundered, and the man’s eyes widened, shocked into silence.

“I knew your ancestor when he was Lord of Dale; he was a man of honour,” the king leant forward imploringly. “I know you too, Bard the Bowman, better I think than you know yourself. You too are a man of honour. The blood of kings flows in your veins; your passion lies with your people, and your family.”

“How – “ the archer started, but Thorin held up a hand for silence.

“The time of the people of Laketown is all but spent. You know this; you see it around you daily. How much longer do you think they can eke out a living on the scraps Thranduil throws you and rotten fish? Esgaroth was once the centre of all the trade in the north, and its people prospered.”

Thorin took a deep breath, trying to imbue his voice with all of his passion and sincerity.

“You have my word that we will do all within our power to keep the beast away from Laketown. The dragon is not invulnerable. I will see it slain.”

It felt to Thorin as if several minutes passed in silence. The water lapped gently against the pier with a gentle sloshing sound, and his breath sent plumes of fog into the air. Bard stared down at him, his face impassive. 

In the distance Thorin heard the clanking of armour and raised voices; an alarm must have been raised. Fear coiled in his chest; the circumstances were so different, he didn’t know if they could talk their way out of the Master’s jail again.

Bard spoke.

“If my family comes to harm, Thorin son of Thrain, you had best hope that the dragon has already destroyed you.”

Thorin sighed thankfully, and the tall man strode swiftly into the darkness. The dwarves jogged to keep up; speed was now more essential than silence. They reached the edge of town, looking warily over their shoulders at the ruddy glow of distant flickering torchlight. Bard swiftly untied the line tethering a small row boat to the dock, and the company climbed on board. 

The Bowman pushed them away from the pier with his boot, and stood watching them paddle off into the darkness.

“See that you keep your word, King Under the Mountain,” he said softly, and the wind blew his coat back so that it billowed around him.

Thorin watched until his figure was swallowed by the darkness. Doubt clogged his mind. _By my honour, I will try._

***

Sunrise saw them climbing the dusty, rocky foothills of the Mountain. Bilbo glanced around agitatedly as they walked; the bleakness of the landscape seemed to unsettle him.

“It’s so quiet,” he said, looking up at the king.

“Once this was fertile woodland,” Thorin replied, remembering. “I used to go wandering amongst the trees with my brother and sister, when we could escape the pressures of court.”

He smiled down at the hobbit.

“You would have loved it here, it was beautiful.”

Bilbo smiled back, relaxing.

“Thorin,” called Dwalin from up ahead.

The burly warrior was standing on a rocky overhang. Thorin and Bilbo came up behind him, and the king heard the hobbit’s soft intake of breath at the sight before them.

The ruined city of Dale sat shrouded in clouds, gleaming orange in the dawn light. The crumbling towers and ruined walls were blanketed in unearthly quiet.

“The once great city of Dale,” Thorin murmured before Bilbo could ask. “Now it is only a ruin, thanks to the wrath of the dragon.”

“The desolation of Smaug,” Balin agreed somberly.

“We will stop here for a meal,” Thorin ordered, “We will need daylight to search for the hidden door.”

The dwarves settled down in the shadow of the Mountain, and Bilbo pulled Thorin aside.

“Take a walk with me?” he asked, and the king felt a swooping sensation in his stomach.

He’d conveniently forgotten the hobbit’s request to talk to him in private. He managed a nod, and followed Bilbo apprehensively as he picked his way along the ridge line. When they were out of earshot of the others, the hobbit turned and crossed his arms, looking up at him sternly. The small part of him that had been valiantly hoping for some sort of declaration of undying love died with a little flicker.

“You have some talking to do, Thorin Oakenshield,” Bilbo informed him, wagging a finger under his nose.

Fear gave way to confusion. No one had ever tied his emotions up in knots like this before he’d met the hobbit; the entire experience was very disconcerting.

“I… do?” he asked nervously.

“Yes, you do! You are going to tell me whatever it is that you haven’t been telling me. And we are going to discuss it like adults!” the hobbit placed his hands on his hips, scowling up at Thorin with what he obviously thought was a fierce impression.

It really wasn’t helping matters that he found the pose adorable. He tried to focus. _Now is not the time._

“What I haven’t been telling you?”

“Thorin…” Bilbo lost the irritable manner, his expression turning fragile and open. “How did you know that the way out of the Woodland Realm was through the cellars?”

_ Oh. _

His jaw dropped open in shock.

“How did you know that Bard was a descendant of Girion? How did you know enough of his character to convince him to let us go?”

When he’d tried to guess what Bilbo wanted to talk about, this had never even entered his mind. Panic bubbled up in his chest. He tried to speak, but no words came out.

“How…” Bilbo’s voice dropped to a whisper, and Thorin had never heard him sound so vulnerable. “How did you know the type of hobbit I could be, when I didn’t even know myself?”

The hobbit had moved closer without seeming to realise it. He reached out as if he was going to touch Thorin’s arm, but his hand stilled partway across the distance between them. The king was immobilized by the storm of indecision raging inside him. _I cannot tell him…_

Bilbo’s eyes scrunched in fractionally at the corners. It was the tiniest movement, only the smallest of changes, but Thorin could see the hurt. The halfling’s eyes seemed to close off as if shutters were falling behind them. He began to withdraw his hand, but not before Thorin noticed a slight trembling.

Something inside him _snapped._

He darted forward and seized Bilbo’s hand, and it was the halfling’s turn to freeze. The hobbit looked up at him, hope kindling in his eyes.

“Bilbo…” he took a deep steadying breath. 

It took him several moments to find his voice.

“That night at Bag End was not the first time I have met you.”

Bilbo’s expression turned puzzled, and Thorin interrupted him before he could reply.

“Hush, don’t speak. I need to… just let me talk.”

The hobbit nodded, moving the hand that Thorin was holding with both of his own to squeeze reassuringly.

“Once… I brought a company of twelve dwarves to meet with a hobbit in the Shire. Gandalf told me that he was to be our burglar, but I am ashamed to say that I could not foresee any way in which he would be useful to our quest. I did not trust him. I was rude, and cruel, and dismissive, and… and then he saved my life.”

Bilbo’s head was tilted to the side in confusion, and Thorin brushed his thumb along the back of the halfling’s hand, gathering his courage to continue.

“We continued on with our quest, and time and time again he proved his loyalty. I had never misjudged anyone as badly as I had him.”

He closed his eyes for a long moment, lost in the memories.

“And then we reached the Mountain.”

He opened his eyes and Bilbo frowned, glancing up at where Erebor stood tall against the lightening sky.

“We found the door. And we found the dragon.”

The hobbit was now looking up at him in increasing alarm.

“The beast was slain, but I… I fell to the treasure Bilbo.”

He couldn’t keep the hurt and the shame from creeping into his voice.

“I did things… things that I would never… I became like the monster himself.”

Bilbo was clutching at his hands with a white knuckled grasp.

“There was a battle. Fíli and Kíli – “ he choked off with a strangled sob.

“ _Thorin_ …” Bilbo whispered in horror.

“And I… I died.”

The halfling’s hand spasmed, clutching at his reflexively.

“You…?” 

“And then I woke. In the Shire. And then I… then I met you in Bag End. Again.”

He slumped forward slightly, exhausted and relieved and terrified and ashamed. The combination was overwhelming.

“Oh, _Thorin!”_ Bilbo cried, and his flung his arms around the dwarf king’s neck, squeezing him tightly in a hug.

Thorin blinked, dazed. He haltingly brought his arms up to return the embrace. The hobbit’s small body felt warm against the chill in the northern air.

Bilbo pulled back slightly suddenly, gripping Thorin’s shoulders and giving him a shake.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?!” he demanded crossly. “I can’t believe you’ve been carrying all that around like the great, brooding idiot that you are! I could have helped! We could have changed everything!”

“We could have changed too much,” Thorin interjected, a warm buoyant feeling swelling up inside him. “I’ve only changed a few things, but already the ripples have pulled things out of my control again and again… if everyone knew – if _everyone_ tried to change things…”

Bilbo’s nodded slowly in understanding. His eyes darted over Thorin’s face, and the king became conscious that they’d been standing in each other’s arms for some time now.

“Well then,” Bilbo said firmly. “We will just have to keep it between us for the present moment. Though I wouldn’t be surprised if some of the others suspect something.”

He smiled at Thorin apologetically, “You’re not all that great at being subtle, to be honest.”

The king snorted, brushing a thumb lightly across where it rested on the halfling’s back.

“Dwalin definitely does. Gandalf and Balin too, unless I miss my guess.”

The hobbit let his hands slide off of Thorin’s shoulders, resting them on the king’s chest.

“I think you have the right idea. Don’t tell me any more of what happened for now; I won’t be able to help but try to change things.”

Thorin frowned.

“But – “

“I trust you, Thorin,” Bilbo said simply, heedless of the way his words made the king’s heart race.

“Thorin!” called Dwalin from behind them. “We best get moving, we may need the light.”

They let go of each other hurriedly, stepping backwards. Bilbo nodded confidently at him, and they turned and returned to the group. Dwalin raised an eyebrow at him as he walked up to the warrior.

“Anything you’d like to announce, after that little exchange?” he asked with a smirk.

Thorin glanced apprehensively up at Bilbo, but the hobbit seemed absorbed in gathering his gear.

Dwalin chuckled while the king glared, but refrained from further comment.

Thorin stood on the edge of the overlook, surveying the scene below him.

_ Bilbo thinks I can do this.  _ The thought served to bolster his flagging confidence. It was hard not to believe in himself when faced with the hobbit’s unflappable faith. 

Someway, somehow, he would slay the dragon… and face the treasure.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merciful Mahal, there is only one chapter to go!
> 
> FINALLY, Thorin has spilled the proverbial beans to dear Bilbo. Now there's just the simple matter of slaying the mountain sized dragon ahead of them... somehow...
> 
> Bard, I love you, don't ever change.


	6. Chapter 6

They hiked past Dale’s crumbling ruins and up the slopes of the mountainside. The loose scree made for treacherous footing, and they picked their way across the terrain carefully. Thorin directed the company to search for the hidden door, though he’d purposefully started them further afield from the secret staircase. They had a whole day to waste before the moon rose.

Bilbo waited until the others had drifted out of earshot, then promptly turned to face him expectantly.

“So, where is it?”

“Bilbo!” he chided, “What happened to ‘ _Don’t tell me any more Thorin_ ’ and ‘ _I trust you Thorin_ ’?”

The hobbit scowled ferociously.

“No need to be a twit, oh King Under the Mountain,” he muttered, and Thorin chuckled richly.

They wandered about, making a show of searching. Bilbo seemed disinclined to actually look when he knew that Thorin already knew the door’s location. The king used the time to ponder on the small matter of the slumbering dragon.

He paced over the rocky ground, the halfling trotting alongside him. His mind remained obstinately blank of any brilliant ways to kill a dragon, and he felt his temper growing fouler. The day wore on, and as the shadows started to lengthen the rest of the dwarves starting growing uneasy.

_ Maybe I should just ask Smaug politely to leave the Mountain,  _ Thorin thought sarcastically _._ He snarled under his breath, frustrated beyond measure. _How in Durin’s name did I leave this until now? Twice?_

Balin looked up at him with a worried expression.

“Don’t worry, Thorin, we will find the entrance before the sun sets,” he said reassuringly.

“Uh…” Thorin said foolishly, distracted by Bilbo rolling his eyes behind Balin’s back.

“Wait!” Bilbo interrupted excitedly, “Look! Up there!”

He pointed up the mountainside, and the company gathered to see the familiar steps carved into the side of the looming stone statue. Thorin smiled.

“You have keen eyes, Master Baggins.”

The hobbit narrowed his eyes at the king, and snorted when he attempted an innocent expression. 

The company rushed forward eagerly and they began the long ascent. Fíli and Kíli jockeyed for the privilege of first place, with Fíli taking the honour thanks to a skilfully placed kick to his brother’s shin. Thorin was thankful that his nephews would be present for the opening of the Mountain this time. Turning Kíli away because of his injury had been excruciatingly painful.

They climbed doggedly up the steep, wide steps. Thorin grabbed Bilbo by the forearm to help pull him up over one of the turns, memory taking him back to an almost identical moment in his last life. As he had the first time, Bilbo beamed up at him gratefully, the orange light catching in his eyes. Thorin remembered his confusion at the way his breath had hitched, how he’d bustled the halfling ahead of him without stopping to examine the feeling. _Mahal, I was oblivious._

This time, he allowed himself to admire the way the light turned the hobbit’s eyes honey gold for a moment before guiding him upwards with a light hand on his back. Dwalin, the next in line, rolled his eyes at them when Bilbo couldn’t see.

They reached the ledge, and Thorin started to feel queasy.

“This must be it!” Fíli cried excitedly.

“And just in time too!” Kíli added, shading his eyes to look to the west, “The last light of Durin’s Day!”

“See if you can find the door,” Thorin managed to croak out as his stomach churned.

He wondered whether it would be too undignified to hurl his lunch up over the edge of the cliff. Balin looked at him, concerned. 

“Right, then!” said Dwalin eagerly, “We have a key, which means that somewhere there is a key hole.”

The warrior ran his hands over the rock, tapping lightly. The sun was creeping ever lower on the horizon behind them. Nori stepped forward to put an ear against the wall, tapping the stone with a spoon, and Fíli and Kíli stilled their overexcited fidgeting and exchanged a troubled glance. Thorin turned over his shoulder to look at the sunset, eyes unfocused. 

_ This was the beginning of the end for me,  _ he mused darkly.

Fíli shaded his brow to look at the sky.

“The sun is setting, we have to hurry!” the prince said tensely.

Kíli strode forward to thump a fist on the stone.

“I can’ hear anything with you two thumpin’!” scolded Nori.

“It’s not here!” yelled Dwalin, throwing his shoulder against the rock in anger.

“We’ll have to break it down!” cried Kíli, and the dwarves rushed forward to throw themselves at the cliff face.

“It’s no good!” shouted Balin, “The door’s sealed. It can’t be opened by force; there’s a powerful magic on it.”

The sun slipped below the mountainous horizon, plunging them all into shade.

“No…” whispered Kíli, staring horrified at the sky.

“The last light of Durin’s Day…” Fíli breathed, his face immobilized by shock. “How… what did we do wrong?”

He looked up at Thorin, and the king felt his chest ache at the devastation on his nephew’s usually cheerful face. It took all his strength not to blurt out everything he knew then and there. He closed his eyes and turned away, unable to meet the prince’s eyes.

“We’ve lost the light,” Balin said quietly, grief stricken, “There’s no more to be done. We had but one chance.”

The old dwarf put a hand on Fíli’s shoulder.

“Come away lads. It’s over.”

“Thorin?!” Bilbo hissed as the other began to leave. 

“Wait with me,” he murmured back, and Bilbo blew out a sigh of relief.

The hobbit came to stand by his side when the last of the dwarves had disappeared down the stairway. Thorin watched the sky darken with trepidation. In a few short minutes there would be nothing between him and the dragon’s hoard.

Even the thought was enough to make his hands begin to sweat. He drew in a shaky breath, and Bilbo put a bracing hand on his arm.

“Thorin?” he asked nervously.

“I am fine,” he replied automatically, then frowned. “No, I am not fine.”

“Is it… is it the treasure?” he asked hesitantly.

_ Treasure. _ Even the word on the halfling’s lips sounded sweet, and he shuddered.

“This was when… when I first lost…” he stopped, unable to find the words.

Bilbo squeezed his arm.

“It won’t happen again,” he said confidently. “You’re aware of it now; you can fight it.”

“I’m not so sure,” the king replied softly. 

Above them, the clouds opened up to reveal the crescent moon shining down from the starlit sky.

_ Tap. Tap. Tap. _

They turned back to the rocky wall. A tiny thrush was knocking a snail shell open against the stone. Thorin heard Bilbo draw in an awed breath beside him.

“ _The last light…”_ he murmured, “It’s the moon!”

The hobbit spun to look down the stairs.

“Come back! Fíli, Kíli, everyone, come back! It’s the light of the moon! The last moon of Autumn!”

Thorin watched as the moonlight illuminated the gray stone, and there between the cracks, bathed in white light, was the keyhole.

He took out the key, taking a long, deep breath. He could hear a high ringing in his ears, and everything else seemed muffled by comparison.  Dull footsteps sounded from the stairs, and then the company returned. Kíli came first, his eyes bright and shining, with his brother a half step behind him. Fíli’s wide grin gleamed, and Thorin reminded himself _why_ he was doing this.

_ For the boys. So they get the chance to grow into their beards. So they live to see their homeland restored. _

He stepped forward, slowly placed the key in the keyhole, and turned. The click as it spun into place reverberated up his arm. He placed his fingertips on the stone, and pushed.

And breathed in the musty air of the Lonely Mountain.

It was worse than he could have imagined. It didn’t come in a wave or an avalanche; there was no familiar bittersweet golden melody. It came as a whisper. The tiniest nudge of pressure against his thoughts. 

_ Send Bilbo down alone to deal with the dragon,  _ it crooned gently. _You know that path ends in the dragon’s death. If you try to forge a different way it may end in disaster._

It was a perfectly reasonable concern. Though Laketown would suffer, Smaug would be gone; any deviation could lead to more death and destruction. It was a miracle that the dragon had been slain once; finding another way to kill it would be next to impossible. 

It terrified him. 

Terrified him because he knew that if he yielded there would be another, perfectly reasonable, action to be taken. And another, and another. Step by step the gold would lead him down the twisting road to madness.

He realised with a start that he’d taken several steps down the tunnel without noticing, and froze.

“Erebor…” whispered Balin reverently behind him.

The company filed inside as he held himself still, keeping his muscles locked with an iron will. Fíli and Kíli stared wide eyed at the hewn stone hallways, staying close by each other’s side.

Nori pointed back above the entryway, and Gloin read reverently, “ _Herein lies the Seventh Kingdom of Durin’s Folk. May the heart of the mountain unite all dwarves in defence of this home.”_

Thorin shut his eyes, his face turned away from the others. 

“The throne of the king,” he heard Balin explain to Bilbo.

“And what’s that above it?” the hobbit asked uncertainly.

There was a pause that seemed to Thorin as if it went on for an age, before Balin answered.

“The Arkenstone.”

He tuned out the conversation through sheer force of will, turning his thoughts inward. The dragon. He had to do something about the dragon. He needed a plan, any plan. Goaded by the cool whispering, his anger kindled.

The months of silence and strategy and secrets since his awakening bore down on him, and he bared his teeth in a defiant snarl.

_ Curse it all!  _ He thought angrily, squaring his shoulders. _If this is to end in ruin once again, then so be it. I will not go to my second death dithering with indecision. I will do as I have always done; trust to my heart, and the strength of my arm, and hope for the best._

“Bilbo!” he boomed, and the hobbit jumped comically. “Come with me. The rest of you wait here.”

Balin looked at him apprehensively, and he twitched as if he wanted to stop Bilbo when the hobbit walked over to Thorin. Bilbo smiled at him hesitantly, and he nodded slightly to him before he turned and strode off down the corridor.

They descended down the dark hallway, and the air began to turn bone dry and hot. Thorin had an errant thought that maybe he should slow down, or stop, but his feet carried him forward of their own accord.

“Thorin!” Bilbo said worriedly, trotting beside him to keep up with his hurried pace. “Thorin, what are we -?”

The king stopped suddenly, and Bilbo went past him a few steps before he reacted and pulled up as well.

Thorin stood motionless, staring. Ahead of him the corridor ended in a doorway, and a glinting, reflected light illuminated the room beyond. He licked his dry lips. _The wealth of my people. Just past that door._

He was vaguely aware of Bilbo stepping in front of him and saying something, but he couldn’t hear his voice. 

_ So exquisite,  _ he thought idly, _I wonder why I was so worried._

He took a step forward, but Bilbo moved with him, blocking the way with his body.

Thorin lowered his focus to the halfling, and a brilliant idea occurred to him.

“Bilbo,” he started hoarsely, “I know how to kill the dragon.”

The hobbit’s eyes were wide and panicked for some reason. Thorin couldn’t imagine why, not when things were _finally_ as they should be. He grinned down at the halfling.

“Thorin, I think we should go back. I don’t think it’s safe down here.”

The dwarf tilted his head. Bilbo looked… _terrified._

“Don’t be afraid,” he said reassuringly, lifting a hand to run the back of his fingers across the halfling’s cheek.

Bilbo blinked rapidly, his mouth falling open in surprise.

“I am going to fix everything, my burglar,” Thorin said, smiling down at the hobbit.

“Ahh… that’s… I mean, that’s good?” Bilbo replied, leaning in a little to the king’s touch.

“I just need one thing from you,” he murmured.

“Mmm?” Bilbo asked distractedly, looking at the dwarf’s mouth.

His skin was soft and smooth under Thorin’s thumb as he ran it down the hobbit’s jaw line.

“I need to borrow your ring.”

Bilbo stiffened.

His eyes flicked up to Thorin’s. It was like being doused with a pail of icy water. The king let go of the halfling’s chin like he’d been stung by the icy chips of grey that had replaced Bilbo’s usually warm eyes. Thorin had never seen them so distant.

He staggered back as the gold-spell snapped, recoiling painfully through his mind and forcing him to collapse against the stone wall. 

Bilbo didn’t move to help him. 

The hobbit stared down at where he was slumped against the rock, and something in his expression terrified Thorin like nothing he’d ever felt before. The moment seemed to stretch, and all he could hear was in own heart thudding incessantly in his ears.

Then Bilbo blinked.

The hobbit jumped forward, eyes wide in alarm and once more holding their customary warmth.

“Thorin!?” he cried anxiously, kneeling over him, hands fluttering without quite touching him.

The king raised a shaking hand to his brow, breathing heavily and trying to regather the scattered threads of his wits.

Bilbo chewed on his lip anxiously, glancing down the hallway to the reflected golden light.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said somberly. “But I don’t really like the way this place feels.”

Thorin moved his hand to the side, glancing up at the hobbit from between his fingers.

And he barked out a laugh.

It startled both of them, and they stared at each other for a second. Then a smirk played around the edges of Bilbo’s mouth, and Thorin felt his lips quirk up in response. Before he knew it they had both dissolved into gales of smothered laughter, Bilbo’s head dipping forward to rest against Thorin’s shoulder as he guffawed.

He wasn’t entirely certain what they were laughing at. Perhaps it was relief that he’d resurfaced from the dragon sickness again, or that Bilbo had recovered from… whatever it was that had happened to him. Maybe it was to overcome the dread that they felt about the future. Or maybe it was just because for this moment, they were together, and they could forget about the pressures of the world.

Eventually Bilbo’s shaking giggles stilled, and he leant back to gaze at Thorin’s face. The king stared back, and there was a sad, dull ache in his chest.

“Bilbo…” he said miserably, “I cannot do this.”

The hobbit’s face scrunched up with concern. His eyes flicked over the dwarf’s face, searching for something. Then he nodded fractionally to himself, and his expression turned determined.

“Yes, you can.”

“How? I can’t even tell when it is influencing me, and by the time it has stolen my mind I don’t even know enough to struggle against it. How can I possibly – “

Bilbo put his hand over the king’s mouth, cutting him off.

“Hush, babbling is supposed to be my thing,” he said fondly, “I have something for you that might help.”

Thorin frowned at him in confusion. He experienced a split second of panic as Bilbo lowered his hand to reach into his pocket, thinking he was about to pull out the ring. After the terrifying moment earlier the idea of being any closer to the thing than he had to made him sick to his stomach. But it wasn’t the ring that Bilbo offered to him in the centre of his palm.

It was the acorn.

He remembered it clearly, one of the few sections of his memory during the dragon sickness that wasn’t foggy and eroded.

“Your acorn?” he asked, puzzled, “But… your garden? What will you use to remember?”

Bilbo’s eyebrows rose.

“I told you about it?” he asked.

“Yes, the last time… when I was sick,” Thorin replied, looking away.

Bilbo picked up his hand, and placed the acorn in it, closing the dwarf’s fingers around the small, irregular shape.

“I want you to keep it,” he said softly, and Thorin glanced back at him. “I took it to remember what’s important, and… well I think right now you need help with that more than I do.”

_ If more people favoured home above gold, this world would be a merry place. _

His own words echoed back at him as he stared down at the acorn, his hands resting in the hobbit’s. He ran his fingertips over the tiny bumps in the wood. 

“What is important…” he murmured. 

He looked up to study the halfling. Bilbo was resting on his knees, straddling one of the dwarf’s legs. Thorin could feel his pulse jumping when the hobbit’s fingers brushed against the inside of his wrists. There was a small, freshly healed scar on his left cheek; a memento from his fight with Azog. The sleeve of his robe gaped open to reveal the edge of a bandage on his arm.

He closed his fist around the acorn, fiery determination running through his veins.

“You are right,” he said firmly, shifting forward so that he was bearing his own weight rather than slumping against the wall.

The move brought him into Bilbo’s space, and the hobbit’s breath hitched. 

“If there is anything that I have learnt from this second chance at life, it is what is truly important to me.”

He met Bilbo’s eyes, there in the empty mountain corridor. 

“My family.”

He lifted a hand to cup the hobbit’s jaw, brushing his thumb against the scar on his cheek.

“My honour.”

Bilbo’s eyes widened, beautiful and stormy grey in the dim light.

“My people.”

Thorin leant closer still, so that he could feel the hobbit’s breath on his lips.

“And you.”

And he pressed a light kiss against Bilbo’s mouth. 

The hobbit was immobile beneath him, and he pulled back a fraction of an inch, satisfied now that whatever end fate had in store for him, he’d face it knowing himself, and knowing his heart.

Then Bilbo let out a strangled squawking noise, and launched himself at the king.

He found himself with an armful of impassioned hobbit, and Bilbo held his head in his hands and kissed him again, _thoroughly_. He clutched at the halfling’s waist, pulling him even closer, his mind exploding with fireworks when the hobbit nipped lightly at his lip and pulled away.

“You bastard!” yelled Bilbo, and Thorin gaped up at him, entirely and utterly unable to form any sort of rational thought.

He spluttered, trying to speak, but Bilbo swooped down and kissed him senseless again. The hobbit ran a hand along his jaw, fingers sliding through his beard before trailing up past his ear to bury them in his hair. He broke the kiss again, leaning forward to rest his forehead against the king’s.

“I thought you didn’t…” Bilbo said quietly. “I can’t believe you almost let us walk into a dragon’s lair without…”

Thorin took some solace in the knowledge that Bilbo was having trouble constructing sentences as well.

“Wait!” the hobbit cried suddenly, sitting back and narrowing his eyes at Thorin suspiciously. “Have you done this before? Have we done this before? Did I miss it?!”

Thorin chuckled dazedly at his outraged expression.

“No, my burglar, we have not done this before. I never thought that you might…” he left the rest unsaid; Bilbo would know what he meant. They’d always excelled at non-verbal communication.

“Well!” Bilbo huffed, mollified. “In that case I’m going to kiss you again.”

Thorin’s stomach swooped as the halfling claimed his lips again, this time moving slowly and softly, lingering over the taste. His heart raced on, and the feel of Bilbo’s body pressed against his was exhilarating and terrifying and beautiful all at once.

They parted for air, both panting lightly, eyes half closed.

_ Clink. _

They stilled at the noise.

_ Clink. Clinkclinkclink. _

The sound of coins rolling and shifting echoed through the hallway. Thorin exchanged a sobering look with Bilbo, and they got to their feet, leaning against one another. The king tightened his fist around the acorn, holding it firmly.

A sibilating, bass rumble rolled up through the stone beneath their feet, followed by a huffing whoosh of air.

Smaug was stirring.

Thorin threaded his fingers with Bilbo’s, holding his hand tightly.

“Whatever comes to pass, stay close to me,” he whispered.

Bilbo squeezed his hand, leaning closer to him and setting his jaw in determination.

“You too,” he replied quietly. “This is very likely to end in fire, isn’t it?”

“Very,” Thorin agreed. “But at least we will burn together.”

Bilbo’s lips curled up in a feral grin.

“I like that,” he said, eyes blazing fiercely. “We will burn together.”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's part 2 finished folks! I'm following in Peter Jackson's footsteps and ending on a cliffhanger, mwahaha.
> 
> I'm still working on part 3, so there'll be a little gap before I start posting it. In the mean time feel free to nag me here or over on tumblr.
> 
> Thank you everyone for your beautiful comments, you give me motivation to keep writing on the slow days. This is the first work of fiction that I've done in about 15 years, so the extra motivation to keep going is invaluable!
> 
> A thousand thank yous to [StrivingArtist](http://archiveofourown.org/users/StrivingArtist/pseuds/StrivingArtist/works) and [Mephestopheles ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mephestopheles/works), for listening to me rant about writing problems at poking me until I worked on my weak points. Go and read their stuff, it's amazing!
> 
> See you again soon for part 3!
> 
> \- Lady Zee

**Author's Note:**

> As always, I'm over on [tumblr](http://theladyzephyr.tumblr.com/) for general hobbit flailings.


End file.
